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GARCILASO 



J. BRECKENRIDGE ELLIS 

AUTHOR OF 

“THE DREAD AND FEAR OF KINGS” 



CHICAGO 

A. C. MCCLURG & CO. 
1901 

U 


♦ 


the library of 

CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

APR, 6 1901 

Copyright entry 

cUwJ, 

CLASS Ou XXo. No. 
COPY B. 



Copyright 

By A. C. McCLURG & CO. 

A. D. igoi 


< < ( 
( < 
< c ( 


DEDICATION 


Love her riches all has hidden 
In a deep and secret cave. 

Who can enter there unbidden? — 

Can by force , though strong and brave , 
Enter , barriers overridden ? 

In its mouth a stone is rolled 

That no fierce, proud force may move ; 
But a password, rightly told. 

Opens up that depth of love , — 

All the gems that love may hold. 

When I speak each magic word 

( There are two), then, swift as springs 
Into heaven the soaring bird, 

• Joys are scattered from love* s wings , — 
Sweetest melody is heard. 

Here those talismans I write. 

Who can tell but they may be 
Passwords, opening the bright 
Golden depth of fame to me ? 

Let me here those names indite : 

FATHER, MOTHER. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. 

I Seek a Lady-Love 


PAGE 

9 

II. 

What I Did to the Moor - 


1 7 

III. 

Riding Double 

. 

30 

IV. 

How I Loved Petonilla - 


44 

V. 

How We Dashed into Granada 

- 

59 

VI. 

I Fight my Lord Captain - 


75 

VII. 

Margaret is in a Rare Temper 

- 

85 

VIII. 

The Duke’s Banquet 


97 

IX. 

Herbert Thinks He is in Love 

- 

11 7 

X. 

Crowned by a Kiss - 


127 

XI. 

Petonilla’s Colors 

- 

144 

XII. 

To Give up Petonilla 


162 

XIII. 

For Life or Death 

- 

169 

XIV. 

The Great Conflagration 


188 

XV. 

Prisoners of the Inquisition 

- 

201 

XVI. 

To be Burned at the Stake 


219 

XVII. 

Just Petonilla and I - 

- 

239 

XVIII. 

Herbert Spoils the Duet 


254 

XIX. 

How I Told Margaret my Mind 

- 

265 

XX. 

A Struggle on the Precipice 


275 

XXI. 

The Woman with the Muffled Face 

281 

XXII. 

Driven Forth to Perish - 


294 

XXIII. 

A Duel and Much Talk of Love 

- 

306 

XXIV. 

How Petonilla Did Me Harm - 


323 

XXV. 

How I Sailed with Columbus 

- 

333 

XXVI. 

I Take Leave of Antonio 


350 

XXVII. 

I Appeal to the Queen 

- 

369 

XXVIII. 

I Find my North 


384 


CHAPTER I 

I SEEK A LADY-LOVE 


Not long ago chance took me to a book- 
seller’s in Cordova, where I lighted upon a book 
pretending to give an account of the distin- 
guished men of my nation. Expecting at least 
a column in regard to my career (if not a page), 
I turned to “Garcilaso de la Vega, Lord of 
Bartras. ” My surprise was great to find that 
the article was taken up wholly with my son, 
dealing not so much with his heroic exploits as 
with certain verses which he had composed (in 
defiance of my wishes). This surprise gave way 
to a lively indignation when I discovered that 
there was not another Garcilaso between the 
covers of that meager and partial work. Thanks 
be to my patron saint (St. James of Compostella) ! 
the perpetuity of my fame doth not rest upon 
the pen of Karl Reuchlin, such being the bar- 
barous name of this ignorant German compiler. 
For I myself have written my autobiography in 
six voluminous tomes, carrying my life down to 


9 


IO 


GARCILASO 


its fiftieth year; I hope to add yet another 
volume to the six; and when these shall be 
printed (for which purpose I have made pro- 
vision in my will), the world will find that there 
was another de Vega besides the youth who 
composed “Con un manso ruido de agua cor- 
riente y clara.’ ’ The present narrative is merely 
an episode in my life, and I shall go straight to 
the story, which is one of love and war, without 
so much as a word about my parents. Nothing 
could have compelled me to do this had I not 
treated of them extensively in my autobiography ; 
for mine is one of the highest families of Spain. 
Nor should I have so much as mentioned my 
son — since he doth not appear upon the scene, 
these stirring events having taken place before 
my marriage — were it not for fear the reader of 
a future day might mistake me for him. For if 
I have one quality of which I am more proud 
than another, it is my modesty ; and scorning to 
sprinkle my pages with the pronoun “I,” 
Garcilaso will often speak of himself as if he 
were another. 

It was a clear, bright evening in June, and 
the year was 1491. Leaving Herbert Klein in 


I SEEK A LADY-LOVE 


1 1 


my tent, I sought the pavilions occupied by the 
ladies of Queen Isabella. What a sight was 
that ! — a city of silk, extending as far as the eye 
could see, occupied by the chivalry and the 
beauty of Spain. City after city, fortress after 
fortress, we had torn from the heretical arms of 
the Moors; and now Ferdinand the Catholic had 
sat down before Granada, never to depart (so he 
declared) till its surrender. It was an enchant- 
ing scene — the tents placed in regular rows, with 
broad clean streets, meeting at right angles; the 
flutter of banners, pendants, and ensigns; the 
gleam of renowned shields as they stood outside 
the tent-entrances; the colors of the tents, which 
vied with the rainbow in their diverse hues. 
Along the streets rode brave knights in gorgeous 
costumes, each seeking to outdo the other in 
luxurious extravagance. Garcilaso was attired 
as befitted the Lord of Bartras; he was inferior 
to none in his magnificence. And yet, methinks, 
he was the only cavalier in all that host whose 
heart was heavy. He looked beyond the tents, 
across the Vega, blackened by repeated devasta- 
tions, and he saw the red towers of the Alhambra 
glowing like pillars of fire against the snows of 


12 


GARCILASO 


the Sierra Nevada. Since the king had resolved 
to starve the city into surrender, since there were 
no more Moors to meet in gentle combat, what 
glory was there for the cavalier? 

He reached the tent where the Lady Mar- 
garet with her maids awaited him. She saw at 
once that his heart was sad; and bidding her 
maids withdraw to the other side of the apart- 
ment, she pressed him to be seated. “Why, 
Garcias, is thy brow so sad?” she asked. “Thy 
face is the face of one who thinks upon long 
years ill spent.” 

“Nay, Margaret; well were the years spent 
that bought me such a friend as thou art. See, 
I come to thee as in the old days — I am ever 
coming to get comfort, or to press my burdens 
upon thee.” 

“Ever come,” she answered, right gently. 

“I cannot remember that thou art no longer 
a child!” continued Garcilaso. “I seem to be a 
page in the castle of the duke, and thou a maid of 
honor; thou and I both orphans, and so thrown 
together by misfortune and by favor. And when 
I am with thee, I forget that we are grown, and 
troubles vanish ; thou art ever as a sister. ’ * 


I SEEK A LADY-LOVE 


J 3 


The Lady Margaret did not reply. 

“And yet I am of the royal guard,” he con- 
tinued, “and thou a lady of the queen. And still 
I come to thee as if I were that simple page of 
years ago. Oh, Margaret, my heart is heavy.” 

“I would I had happiness to give thee,” she 
said. 

He wondered at her tone, for it sounded as 
if she had no happiness to spare. But why 
should she not have been happy? She had 
beauty and wealth. She spoke, and he forgot 
his thought : 

“What has happened?” 

“The queen gives a tournament next month,” 
he answered. “Since all combats with the 
Moors are over, and our spears rust and our 
horses forget the battle-cry, discontent begins to 
find its way into the hearts of the knights. And 
so the tournament, where many a brave vaunt 
will be made, I doubt it not. And it grieves me 
because I cannot take part in the lists.” 

“Not take a part ! ’ * echoed the lady. ‘ ‘ Why 
not?” 

“I made a vow, alas, dear lady; I stand 
pledged to heaven!” 


H 


GARCILASO 


“Tell me this vow, Garcias, and wherefore it 
was made.” 

“It was when we besieged Velez Melaga. 
Thou hast heard the story — how the king was 
dining in his tent when he saw a part of his army 
retreating before the Moors; how he sprang to 
horse, defended only by his cuirass ; how he ral- 
lied his men, and was himself surrounded by 
the enemy, who were about to cut him down.” 

“Yea,” cried Margaret; “and how one Gar- 
cias Laso rushed to his rescue and saved his 
life.” 

“The Marquis of Cadiz was with me,” Gar- 
cilaso interposed ; for though praise was dear to 
his heart, he did not begrudge it to others. 
“Well, when I saw that the king could not draw 
his sword — for it clove to the scabbard which 
dangled from his saddle-bow — I vowed to St. 
James, and swore that if I were permitted to 
reach the king in time to save his life that I 
would keep my vow. And so the vow must be 
kept.” 

“And what, Garcias, is thy vow?” 

“My vow is this, that never will I fight for 
the colors of a lady who hath not my love.” 


I SEEK A LADY-LOVE 


1 5 


“And is it so hard for thee to love, Garcias?” 

“I have never loved, fair Margaret. There- 
fore is my heart heavy. Methinks there is not 
a hidalgo in Spain who hath not his lady-love, 
save Garcilaso. And yet I have one hope, that 
within this month I may meet a most beauteous 
maiden, who may teach me the way of love.” 

“Think it not, my friend,” said the lady, 
with a strange smile of daring. “For having 
known such a maiden from childhood without 
feeling this love, how can a month teach thee 
what the years have despaired of teaching?” 

“Dear Margaret, take not that tone,” cried 
Garcilaso, in despair, “for when thou speakest so, 
and with that laugh, I never understand thee. 
But how canst thou laugh? For I may not fight 
in the tournament, since I love no one.” 

“Not even me!” cried Margaret. 

“Nay, dear sister; thou knowest my meaning. 
Thou hast my warm love, but it is not that love 
for which a cavalier fights.” 

“And thou wouldst not fight for my colors?” 
she persisted, with that teasing smile that seems 
to make sport of its object. 

Garcilaso rose with haughty dignity and said, 


1 6 


GARCILASO 


“Since it is thy pleasure to make merry with my 
sad case — ” 

But the Lady Margaret, rising also, inter- 
rupted with these words: “Garcias, there is a 
maiden in my company, the fairest, I think, that 
the sun ever spied in this kingdom. Next week 
attend the banquet of the Duke Medina Sidonia; 
I will be there, and with me this fair lady. I 
know thy tastes — thou hast often told me what 
kind of maid would suit thine eye — such a one 
that is in every point and circumstance different 
from me. I believe thou wilt be suited with 
Petonilla. Come and see.” 

“Now heaven and St. James grant that it 
may be so!” cried the Lord of Bartras; and 
after thanking her for her sweet interest, he bade 
her adieu. 


CHAPTER II 

WHAT I DID TO THE MOOR 

I returned to my tent somewhat lighter of 
heart than when I left it. Herbert Klein still 
sat upon the carpet (it was of rich design) read- 
ing a poem writ by an Italian who had died just 
one hundred and seventy years ago. It irked 
me to see him give all his energies to the perusal 
of what was never true, when life lay all about 
him full of truth and a much more solid interest. 

“Ay, read, read, read,” said I, impatiently. 
“And are thine eyes better for nothing than to 
glue them upon paper? Pity,” said I, “that 
the sky is not writ all over with legends, that 
thou mightest look up and see that there is a 
sun shining upon a lovely world!” 

I thought my taunt would stir his blood, but 
he only smiled, nor laid down his Dante. Truly 
he was of a marvelous phlegmatic disposition, 
that German. A Spaniard would have reached 
for his sword at my tone of voice. But Herbert 
Klein read on. 


i7 


i8 


GARCILASO 


I sat down with as much clatter as my armor 
would make, and coughed, and drummed upon 
the seat with my fingers. He budged not. 
“Look thou, Herbert,” said I, at length; “I 
saved thy life; give me a few of its moments!” 

He looked up slowly, his eyes still full of the 
printed letters, so that they saw me not. 

“A murrain upon this new invention,” said 
I. “As if there were not enough of books in 
the monasteries, but they must needs be multi- 
plied as the seed of Abraham, and scattered in 
castle and den! An evil day when that old 
fool Gutenberg (of thine own nation, Herbert) 
invented the way to spread words, so that when 
the first book is published, others spring from it, 
as one case of a contagious disease infects a 
camp. It is but scarce twenty years ago,” said 
I, “that mine eye beheld the first printed book 
in this country. Thinkest thou our parents were 
any the worse without this plague? They writ 
their books in blood; they read in maiden’s eyes, 
and in the signs of heaven.” 

I know not how long I might have gone on 
in this strain had not the German been roused 
at last to speech. “Laso,” he said, “what 


WHAT I DID TO THE MOOR 


l 9 


thinkest thou of this ; Dante hath put one of the 
popes in his hell! Let me read it to thee.” 

‘‘Read it not,” said I. ‘‘Did I save thy life 
to read me to death? Yet, but for me thou 
wouldst ere this have graced an auto da ft. 
Thou stupid German, to think thou couldst 
befriend a Jew, and a poor Jew, one notorious 
for lack of wealth! How well I remember that 
scene! We were strangers then. Thou didst 
defy the familiar of the Holy Office. ‘I know 
not where lieth the Jew,’ saidst thou; ‘an I 
did,’ saidst thou, ‘I would not give him up!’* I 
saw thou wast a stranger to this land, and did 
not know the law — how one who hides a Jew 
is held as a heretic. I pitied thee. I took thy 
part; ferreted out the Jew from under thy bag- 
gage, gave him up to the Inquisition, saved thy 
life, and have not yet received thy thanks!” 

‘‘I cannot thank thee for saving my life,” said 
this thankless Herbert, ‘‘because thou broughtest 
an old Jew to the torture, and doubtless to 
death.” 

‘‘He was a Jew,” said I. 

‘‘He was a human being,” said the German. 

“Yea, there is hope for him,” said I. 


20 


GARCILASO 


“Only last week a hundred of the rascals were 
tortured into becoming right good Catholics. 
The good queen wept for joy on receiving the 
tidings. Perhaps thine old renegade was 
amongst the converts. May St. James of Com- 
postella,” said I, “and the Most Blessed Virgin 
grant that all Jews may either be converted or 
swept, every Jew of them, from the face of the 
earth! But, Herbert, what thinkest thou? I 
am like to meet a maiden with whom I can fall 
in love.” 

“Ay,” said this knight of books; “it is the 
danger that is common to all men.” 

“But, Herbert, this is no vague, unexpected 
danger; for the Lady Margaret hath filled my 
heart with blissful anticipations. I am to meet 
her next week. Hark to her name — Petonilla ! 
Doth it not sound like the soft dropping of rain 
on a summer’s afternoon? Petonilla! Hearest 
thou not the breath of a night-breeze laden with 
the perfume of rose-leaves?” 

“Nay,” said Herbert; “I hear but an Italian 
sound. Wilt give thine heart to an Italian?” 

“She is no Italian,” I cried. “In her veins 
floweth the proudest blood of Old Castile.” 


WHAT I DID TO THE MOOR 


21 


“Said the Lady Margaret Guzman so?’’ 

“No one hath said so. But, by St. James, 
it shall be so! I grant thee Petonilla is an 
Italian name; but it was given in playful sport 
when she was a babe. Would Margaret speak 
me an Italian?’’ 

“This Petonilla is an Italian,’’ said Herbert, 
stolidly. “It is I who tell thee so.’’ 

“Signor Don Herbert Klein de Metz,’’ said 
I, rising to my full height and grasping my 
sword, “if thou sayest Petonilla is an Italian, 
thou liest in thy throat.’’ And saying so, I 
threw my gantlet at his feet. 

Herbert looked up from where he sat, with 
the book turned down upon his knee, and he 
smiled his German smile, and said, lightly, 
“Signor Don Garcias Laso de la Vega, Lord of 
Bartras, and the rest of it, if there be more, as 
thou didst once save my life, I now save thine, 
by not accepting thy challenge.” He took up 
the gantlet, rose, and presented it to me with 
a low bow, and still with that good-natured 
smile which my generosity could not resist. 
He had not the spirit of a cavalier — he was no 
Spaniard; and yet he had many fair qualities. 


22 


GARCILASO 


We shook hands, and I forgave him then and 
there. 

“Laso, ” said the German, still smiling, “this 
is the second time I have refused to fight with 
thee. Something tells me that one day we will 
meet in combat.” 

“If that day ever cometh,” said I, “may the 
Blessed Virgin have mercy upon thee!” 

“Amen,” said he; “and God also!” That 
was a strange man, Herbert the German; I 
doubt if he knew half the time the meaning of 
his own words. 

Now upon that night I could not sleep, but 
fared forth alone, upon my horse, to muse upon 
Petonilla, and to pray that she might be such a 
one as I could love. It was not my night to 
keep the watch, and riding through the deep 
trench that surrounded the oblong city of silk, 
I pressed on across the burnt space that lay 
between the camp and Granada. It was a scene 
such as spoke fondly to a heart full of romantic 
cravings. The lights in the tents made beautiful 
colored blurs upon the vast curtain of darkness. 
And it was there, thought I, it was there that 
Petonilla lay. May the saints send her sweet 


WHAT I DID TO THE MOOR 


2 3 


dreams, thought I. And even as I thought, I 
heard a movement among the groves and gar- 
dens that nestled against the lofty walls of 
Granada. Presently I heard the tramp of horses 
coming with lightning speed. It was intensely 
dark ; nothing was to be seen but the lights in 
the towers of Granada, and the colored illumi- 
nations of King Ferdinand’s encampment. The 
Moors — they were coming, they were rushing 
down upon that sleeping city of tents. I 
wheeled about, and spurred back to give the 
warning. But my horse was frightened by the 
sudden tumult and veered aside. Almost 
instantly I was in their very midst. They took 
me for one of their own number, and rushed like 
a storm past me, their fleet Arab horses raising 
a cloud of dust about me. With screams of 
bravado they charged about the deep trenches, 
and the royal guard rushed forth. It was a ruse 
to attract attention to the farther end of the 
camp. For I saw a gigantic Moor plunge into 
the trench, and emerge at the very border of the 
royal pavilions. By his gigantic stature and 
unparalleled audacity I knew it was Yarfe the 
Moor. The camp was now in the wildest tur- 


2 4 


GARCILASO 


moil, and everywhere lights sprang into being. 
By this sudden illumination I saw Yarfe rise in 
his stirrups and cast his lance at the very edge 
of the queen’s pavilion. I urged my horse with 
spur and voice, but he refused to attempt the 
trench, for it was here almost impassable. I 
vowed to St. James that if he would enable me 
to cross that gulf and come at the heretic, I 
would make a pilgrimage to his shrine. But 
neither spur nor vow moved that obstinate and 
rearing horse one step nearer my desire. The 
figures of knights and ladies flitted from place to 
place, the former seeking their armor, the latter 
imploring protection. The sight of Yarfe, who 
with insolent daring had paused to see how far 
his lance would fare, aroused a terrible appre- 
hension that all the Moors were at his back. 
Then at last he wheeled about, for the royal 
guard were charging down upon him. And 
even as his steed spurned the ground, he 
reached from his saddle and seized a maiden 
and lifted her before him as if she had been 
a feather. I saw it all. One cry he gave 
of “Allah Akbar!’’ then leaped into the 
ravine, and thundered up the bank near me. 


WHAT I DID TO THE MOOR 


2 5 


Now had the opportunity for glory come to 
Garcilaso. 

As the Arab steed emerged from the gloom 
of the fortifications, I gave my horse such a 
blow that he reared almost erect, and had nigh 
fallen over upon my body. But even as he stood 
so and seemed to tremble for his balance, I 
drew the bit with all my might (and in those 
days my strength was not a little) and brought 
him square across the path of the sacrilegious 
Moor. The Arab steed crouched back, the 
bloody foam flying from his nostrils. I seized 
his bridle rein. 

“Now by St. James of Compostella,” cried 
I, “not thus shall Yarfe escape his enemy!” 

“Infidel dog!” roared the giant. “We will 
see from whom cometh more power, from thy 
saint or from mine only true God.” He made 
a pass at me, quick as the flash of steel in the 
hand of a Christian. But my own St. James 
won, for I struck his sword high in the air, and 
broke my own upon his helmet. 

“Allah Akbar!” he cried. “Sure, this is 
Garcilaso, who saved the king’s life.” (For it 
was known everywhere, and you cannot find a 


26 


GARCILASO 


history of the Granadine Wars which doth not 
set forth the circumstance.) “None other could 
have done that deed!” 

“I am Garcilaso, to thy cost!” 

“Sayest so? Nay, the play is but begun. 
Couch thy lance. Let us have a gentle joust.” 
So saying, he wheeled his horse in a semicircle 
and sped away like the wind, then turned again 
and paused facing me. I couched my lance as 
he did his spear, while still he held the insensible 
maiden across his breast as for a shield. Far 
away the Christians were driving the Moors 
before them, but as it chanced, we two were 
unperceived save by my brave old captain, 
Hernando Perez del Pulgar, he of the 
“Exploits.” That doughty warrior had 
crossed the trench, and seeing us drawn up for 
a joust, stayed his horse to witness a gentle 
encounter. 

“Art ready?” cried Yarfe. 

“Nay,” cried Garcilaso; “an thou be a true 
knight of chivalry, lay down the maiden and 
meet me breast to breast.” 

“By Allah, I forgot I held the feather in 
mine arm,” cried Yarfe (so strong was he). 


WHAT I DID TO THE MOOR 


3 7 


Then he placed her softly upon the ground, not 
leaving his saddle to do it, and we spurred our 
horses, and at each other with lightning speed. 
As we came close together, his great size made 
a shadow of doubt cross my mind. But the 
next moment I saw a light in the sky, and a 
horseman on a milk-white steed bearing a banner 
on which the Holy Cross glowed in silver light. 
I saw as plainly as now I see this page before 
me — I saw that apparition of St. James smile. 
I know not if Yarfe saw it; I know not if his 
horse saw. But if not, why did that Arab steed 
stumble just as I was about to make my thrust, 
and to receive that giant’s thrust as well? If 
thou art a right true Catholic, thou knowest I 
saw that aerial Saint Knight ; and heaven forbid 
that ever these pages should be conned by a 
heretic ! 

Down went that haughty Moor, down in the 
dust. And such was the weight of his armor 
(in which alone he trusted), and such the speed 
of his horse, that any but he must have been 
stunned by the fall. But up sprang Cavalier 
Yarfe the Moor, and bravely spoke he, though 
bereft of lance, spear, and sword. “Dismount, 


28 


GARCILASO 


Sir Knight, and take thy fill of vengeance. For 
though I have but my naked hands, I will do as 
I may against thy lance.” 

“Nay,' up,” said Garcilaso; “up, upon thy 
good steed, and recover thy spear. For never 
hath the arm of Garcilaso de la Vega smitten an 
unhorsed foe.” 

“My spear broke as it struck the ground,” 
he said. “I am unarmed, save by the courage 
of my soul.” 

“Then that shall save thee,” said Garcilaso. 
“Mount thy steed and go thy way to Granada; 
only with me leave thy broken spear and the 
maiden.” 

“Brave Garcilaso, generous cavalier,” said he 
as he mounted, “may we meet some day equally 
matched!” He bent low from his saddle in 
a profound obeisance, then raised his haughty 
head and thundered away to the gates of 
Granada. 

“By the blood of St. Januarius,” said my old 
captain, Hernando Pulgar, cantering up, ‘‘I 
thought to see a play of arms, but thou hast 
wrought as a right gentle knight. Come, see 
we to the maiden!” 


WHAT I DID TO THE MOOR 


29 


“Nay, Signor Captain,” said I; “have not I 
won the right to see to her alone? I pray thee, 
good sir, hamper me not.” With which Gar- 
cilaso rode straight toward the motionless form 
of the rescued maiden. 


CHAPTER III 

RIDING DOUBLE 


As I bent over the prostrate maiden whom 
I had rescued from captivity, she raised herself 
upoh her elbow, for she had recovered from her 
swoon. Great bonfires had been built upon the 
Vega; squires and pages rode here and there 
with flaming torches; so that, all in all, I had 
a tolerable light upon her face, which was fair to 
behold. “Korah, good Korah,” she mur- 
mured, straining her eyes upon my visor. 

“Nay, maiden,” said Garcilaso; “my heart 
dies that I wear not that name, to hear thee 
call me ‘good’ and in such a tone. But may- 
hap,” said he, “the time will yet come when 
‘Garcilaso’ will fall from thy lips with as sweet 
a voice.” 

Then she sought to rise, and he aided her; it 
was a pleasure. “Thou art my deliverer,” said 
she. “Surely I may call thee ‘good.’ ” 

“But how the tone hath altered!” complained 
the cavalier. “Alas! And I would wear the 
30 


RIDING DOUBLE 


31 


name of Korah forever, didst thou but speak me 
softly all that eternity.” 

“The night is wild,” said the lady. “We 
are alone in the midst of a great waste. Brave 
Signor Knight, take me back to my tent.” 

“Ladies are wishes,” said Garcilaso; “knights 
are feet that obey. Here is my horse. Let me 
set thee thereon, and I will mount before.” So 
I took her in my two hands and swung her upon 
the horse, then leaped lightly in the saddle, for 
all the weight of mine armor. Then up rode 
my captain, Hernando Pulgar, saying, “Laso, 
I will give the lady my horse, and have my 
squire lead her back to her home. Where there 
is double, there is trouble,” said Pulgar in his 
gruff voice. He was a man of iron and blood- 
shed, and cared for no woman. 

“I know not,” said Garcilaso, haughtily, “if 
there be trouble where there is double; but all 
trouble is welcome that I mav undertake in the 
name of this lady.” 

“The name of this lady!” said Pulgar, coldly. 
“Dost thou pretend to know that name?” 

For a moment I was silent. And even as my 
ignorance on this matter chilled my tongue, and 


GARCILASO 


3 2 


rage boiled in my heart, the lady bowed her 
head close to mine ear and deigned to whisper. 
It was like a breath of angels’ song, such as I 
have lost on waking from a dream. “ Petonilla, ” 
she breathed, softly; “Petonilla Fontane.” 

“Yea, her name is known to me,” I said, 
boldly. “This is the fair lady Seftorita Petonilla 
Fontane, the dear friend of Lady Margaret 
Guzman. Suffer us to go in peace, my Lord 
Captain.” 

“If ye desire peace” — thus said that rugged 
warrior — “set the Lady Fontane upon my beast; 
and thou, Laso, come with me, for I have a 
matter to drop into thine ear.” 

“It shall be as the lady wisheth,” said Gar- 
cilaso. “Seftorita Fontane, wilt ride alone, or in 
my protection? Thy wish shall be done, if it 
taketh my last breath to blow thee happiness.” 

Petonilla spoke in tones right clear and 
beautiful: “With thee, Don Garcilaso.” At 
that he made off at a smart pace, and he could 
feel her hand rest lightly upon his shoulder. 
And Hernando Perez del Pulgar sat gloomily 
upon his jennet, shaking his grizzled head. Gar- 
cilaso skirted the yawning chasm that bounded 


RIDING DOUBLE 


33 


that side of the encampment, that he might 
conduct her by an easy path. They met few 
knights, and those they met thought not strange, 
since a knight before, a lady behind, was seen 
every day in those good old days. 

As they drew near a rousing bonfire, he 
turned and studied her face, and said, “I only 
needed the light to know Petonilla. 

“And why ?’ ’ she asked ; ‘ ‘ for we never met. ’ ’ 

“We never met,” answered Garcilaso, “but 
my dear friend the Lady Margaret (with whom 
I was reared from infancy) hath spoken of thee.” 

“And what said my lady, Sir Knight?” 

“That Petonilla is the fairest maiden the sun 
ever looked upon in Spain. I cannot swear as 
to the sun,” said Garcilaso, “but I can swear to 
mine own eyes. But lady, did Margaret ne’er 
mention Garcilaso de la Vega to thee?” 

“She spoke me the name but this evening.” 

“What said she of me, I pray thee tell?” 

“Of thy bravery she told me, as how thou 
didst save the life of King Ferdinand.” 

“And thou canst add to that,” said Gar- 
cilaso, “how I conquered Yarfe the Moor.” 
(And little thought he as he rode on, her hand 


34 


GARCILASO 


ever upon his shoulder, that one Karl Reuchlin 
would compose a dictionary of biography and 
leave out Garcilaso de la Vega in favor of his 
son!) “But what else said Margaret?” 

“That thou art haughty and proud, and 
despise those who are beneath thee in fortune 
and honor.” 

“She said most true, Petonilla.” 

“My lord, that ought not to be. Art thou 
better than the lowly, or than those who seek 
the paths of peace?” 

“That is a strange question, lady! Thou 
knowest that it is a mean spirit that looketh not 
to arms for honor and pleasure. All men cannot 
be knights, because many have a love of gain or 
a fear of war. But he who dedicates his life to 
God and the ladies must hold in contempt a 
meaner life-purpose. But because I am proud, 
and because I am haughty, so much more is the 
worth of my devotion which I tender to thee.” 

“Thou tenderest to me thy devotion, Gar- 
cilaso?” 

“I do. I would wear thy colors.” 

“Alas!” said the lady, with almost a groan. 

“Why ‘alas,’ fair lady?” 


RIDING DOUBLE 


35 


“What wilt thou do for me, Garcilaso?” 

“All that a true knight may. What is thy 
command?” 

She did not answer readily. At last she 
spoke. “Thou heardst me name a name to- 
night that I would keep secret.” 

“The name ‘Korah’?” he said, to aid her, 
for her sweet voice failed. 

“That name. Promise me, Sir Knight, to 
tell no one that such a name escaped me.” 

“I promise. But Petonilla, tell me this; 
doth he wear thy colors?” 

“Alas, my lord, Korah is but a simple, kind 
old man. I may not tell thee more. But this 
I may tell thee: no man weareth colors of 
mine.” 

We had reached the tent. Some time before, 
we had been met by varlets from the establish- 
ment of the Duke of Medina Sidonia, Henrique 
Guzman, and they had attended us. Now 
Margaret Guzman stood at the opening with her 
ladies. I lifted Petonilla to the ground — and 
“How can I reward thee?” said she. 

“In two ways. Give me this scarf from 


36 


GARCILASO 


about thy neck, that I may wear it at the 
tournament.” 

She gave. I kissed it respectfully and placed 
it in my bosom. 

“And grant, Petonilla, that at the duke’s 
banquet I may eat from thy plate.” She hesi- 
tated, for no higher honor could a lady render to 
her knight. Perhaps she knew not if I merited 
such a favor; or she may have fancied I would 
take her love for granted, if she said me yea. 
And then, doubtless, the recollection of what I 
had done for her overcame her scruples; for she 
bowed her lovely face (over which the blushes 
spread like the leaves of peonies opening to the 
breeze). I stayed not to converse with Margaret, 
for the night was far spent, and I knew Petonilla 
was wearied with her adventure. And my heart 
could not have borne the voice of any other 
woman that night. So I left, and giving my 
horse to one of my varlets, I trod the street, 
sunk in profound thought. For I was in love. 
Ah, St. James! how my heart burned with rap- 
ture. The face, the voice of Petonilla, the mem- 
ory of her touch upon my shoulder, the graceful 
form, the fire in her dark eyes — I told them over 


RIDING DOUBLE 


37 


one by one, as a good Christian tells his beads. 
Never such had I seen before, never such had I 
dreamed of. Ah, heaven! how my heart 
danced that night with new, sweet thoughts, 
such as I had never felt. And as I fared forth, 
I met a Dominican, a familiar of the Holy 
Office, doubtless seeking clews to vile heretics. 
And seeing him, and remembering how by his 
vows he could never hope to wed, my heart was 
wrung, and I crowded my gold into his hands. 
I know not how long it was before I reached my 
tent, for my soul had been caught up in the air, 
where there is no time. 

Herbert Klein had not retired, but with lamp 
beside him read steadily in a volume I had never 
seen before. He made as if to conceal it when 
I entered, then thought better of his intention, 
and looked not up. 

I poured forth the tale of Petonilla, I painted 
her charms, and how her breath had kissed my 
cheek at parting, and how the earth seemed to 
swim when I walked. Not a word said the German. 

“Thou sittest there as a stone,” I cried, at 
length. “I doubt if thou didst stir when all the 
camp was in turmoil!” 


38 


GARCILASO 


“Not I,” said Herbert, slowly. “I sent forth 
a page to see what was happening. I was told 
that Yarfe the Moor had cast his lance against 
the queen’s pavilion, with a wicked taunt written 
upon a billet and fastened to the infidel’s weapon. 
Why should I go forth? What was one Moor?” 

“What was one Moor? Enough to carry 
away into captivity the gem of Andalusia! 
Had not I been in the Vega, Petonilla would 
now be in Granada. But why do I speak to 
thee? Thou must see Petonilla to understand 
the charm that enwraps her.” 

“I have seen Petonilla,” he answered, gravely. 

“Thou! And livest unmoved? Thou hast 
seen her, and without love?” 

“She is not the first maiden I have seen.” 

“Now, by St. James!” I cried, “if thou say- 
est there is another her equal, thou shalt meet 
me in combat, though my dearest friend.” 

“I believe,” he answered, “I believe with all 
my soul, Garcias, that in the world there is not 
her equal!” 

I was amazed at his words. I looked at him 
keenly. “Then,” I cried, “where is thy heart? 
For when I described how I saved her from dis- 


RIDING DOUBLE 


39 


honor, not an extra wave of the eyelash didst 
thou vouchsafe!” 

He resumed his reading. Now, in truth, 
I think Herbert even then thought most excel- 
lently well of Petonilla. But such was his pecul- 
iar disposition (being a German) that he could 
feel nothing strongly. He had no fire in his 
being, and could therefore not warm himself 
with his own passions. I know not what would 
have become of him had I not taken a liking to 
him. But I watched over him, and stood be- 
tween him and other Spaniards. 

At last I said, “What book is that thou 
thoughtest first to hide away?” 

He looked me straight in the eye, and 
answered in his coldest tone, “The Bible.” 

“The Bible!" I cried, starting up. “Now 
who hath tempted thee to do this wicked thing, 
Herbert? Put it from thee! For from that 
book has sprung all the mischief of heresy. 
What wouldst thou with it? Thou art no true 
Catholic to read such!” 

“None is better Catholic than I,” he an- 
swered, sluggishly. “None is better book than 
the Bible!” 


4° 


GARCILASO 


I gazed at him in fear at his audacity (or 
stupidity, I know not which it was), and what I 
might have said was interrupted by the entrance 
of a half-wakened varlet. 

“Good master Sir Garcilaso,” said he, “Don 
Hernando del Pulgar awaits thee without.” 
With an ill grace I attended my captain, who 
stood in deep shadow. 

“Enter, my Lord Captain,” said Garcilaso. 

“Nay,” he answered, in his stern, gruff voice. 
“But heed me, Garcias; heed me, Garcilaso, 
Lord of Bartras. Shun the maiden Fontane!” 

“And why should I shun her?” cried Gar- 
cilaso, hotly. “And what is it to thee, my 
Lord Captain — what is it to thee with whom I 
may mate?” 

“Speakest thus to me, Garcias?” he said, 
with sudden tenderness. “Speakest thus to thy 
handkerchief chief?” For it was this Pulgar 
who put his handkerchief upon his lance when 
our banner had been captured by the Moors, and 
it was I who led the men behind that lance to 
victory. And even Karl Reuchlin records this 
fact (naming me not). 

“Thy pardon, my Lord Captain,” said Gar- 


RIDING DOUBLE 


4 1 


cilaso. “No cavalier is braver than thou, and 
none so ready to declare it as I. But in affairs 
of love let each brave knight be his own con- 
fessor.” 

“Hear me, Garcias, for it is for thy welfare,” 
said the grizzled chief, so well known as “El de 
las Hazanas.” “Hear me, comrade; beware of 
Petonilla. For if my suspicions are correct, she 
is a Jewess!” 

“Never! never!” cried Garcilaso, overcome 
with fury. “Let no one dare maintain it, not 
even thou , Don Hernando! Have compassion 
upon me, my Lord Captain, have pity upon me, 
and say not that which will urge me to defy 
thee!” 

“Poor youth,” said Pulgar (for in compari- 
son I was young), “think on what I have said!” 
And he strode rapidly away. Think on it? On 
what else could I think. But over and over I 
said: “It is false! It is a caitiff lie!” I cried 
it after him, but he did not once turn about. 
At last I went back to my apartment. Herbert 
had put away his Bible. Doubtless my remon- 
strance had touched his conscience, and he 
thought well that it was more fitting to learn 


4 2 


GARCILASO 


from a priest, whose business such instruction is, 
than to venture alone into the mysteries of the 
Holy Word. As for me, rather would I plunge 
unaided into the ranks of the enemy than do 
what he had dared to do. For in the former 
case I could only receive physical wounds, 
whereas, what perils to my faith I must 
encounter, being alone with the Bible uncur- 
tailed and unaltered by the Blessed Pope. He 
was preparing to retire. We shared the same 
bed. 

‘‘Herbert,” said I, suddenly, “rememberest 
thou that heretical Jew whom thou soughtest to 
hide from the Inquisition?” 

“Yea,” said he; “and whom thou didst find 
in my baggage, and didst give over to fiendish 
tortures! ” 

“Be it so,” I returned. “Pray heaven his 
Jewish superstition be tortured out of his soul by 
this time, if he be alive to tell the tale! But 
Herbert, what was the name of that Jew?” 

“Korah,” said the German, gruffly. 

“I thought so,” I murmured. “Herbert, 
thou hast seen Petonilla?” 

“Yea,” said he, with a cavernous yawn. For 


RIDING DOUBLE 


43 


a moment my blood boiled to see her acquaint- 
ance acknowledged with such little ceremony. 
But I reflected upon Herbert’s limitations, and 
only said, “Wouldst take her to be of the same 
race?” 

“What! one of the Jews!" exclaimed Herbert 
— and I was astonished to perceive that his voice 
could express such lively emotion. “Never!” 
he cried. “It is false! She is no Jewess!” 

“So said I,” I cried, grasping his hand. 
“Yea, it is false! Let us to sleep, good 


Herbert.” 


CHAPTER IV 


HOW I LOVED PETONILLA 

Now upon the morning when I awoke, my 
first thought was, “What is this happiness that 
has come upon me?” Then I remembered that 
I loved Petonilla. But my caitiff memory could 
not be content, but spurred me with — “Ay, but 
what was the sorrow that weighed upon thy 
breast?” Then I remembered how Pulgar 
believed Petonilla to be a Jewess. I arose, and 
was as one numbed while my varlets bathed, 
dressed, and perfumed me. I was silent all 
through the hour of breakfast, which liked 
Herbert well, as he had no grace of conversa- 
tion, no sprightly turn of wit. As soon as it 
was proper, I repaired to the tent of Margaret, 
from the mere force of habit. She received me 
as she always did, like a true friend. 

“What now, Garcilaso?” she said; “for well I 
know thou never comest hither unless in trouble.” 

“Was that in bitterness?” I asked, prepared 
to be displeased, for I was sore ruffled. 


44 


HOW I LOVED PETONILLA 


45 


“In bitterness? Nay, what care I? But 
often I wonder to whom thou givest thy smiles. 
For, by Our Lady of Castile, I never see thee 
but a complaint is poised on thy tongue.” 

Perceiving that she spoke me gently, I 
unbent. “Truly, fair Margaret, thou readest 
me rightly.” 

“And that,” said she, “were small credit, 
seeing that I can tell you one letter from 
another. But hast thou not been able to fall in 
love since yester eve?” 

“Alas, dear friend, there quivers the sword!” 

“What! And so thou moanest for love one 
day and sighest to be quit of it the next?” 

“Not so. How can I tell thee my cause 
when thou art so full of swelling words? I pray 
thee, lady, say all thou wouldst say at a time, 
that I may begin.” 

“That I may not do, Garcias. How can I 
tell what I would say till thy wit lights the way. 
The path is dark before me. But at the flashes 
of thy wisdom I behold ever new beauties which 
I must cry forth.” 

“But tell me, Margaret,” said Garcilaso, 
softly, “have I indeed a gentle wit?” 


4 6 


GARCILASO 


“Yea, Garcias, a gentle wit, truly; it will 
never harm any one — of that take comfort. ” 

He mused upon her words, for it was as if 
she had a hidden meaning. But presently he 
spoke. “This is the case: I do love Petonilla, 
ah, yes; ah, St. James! I do know what this 
love is that knights fight and die for. Margaret, 
for that sweet lady I would pour forth every 
drop of my blood. She is so fair, ah, yes, she 
is so gracious, so pure, so noble! As to her 
face, it wears a look before which evil thoughts 
are dispersed. I never saw such a face. Heaven 
hath writ her blessing upon that brow.” 

“She is right fair,” said Margaret. 

“Is she not, good Margaret! Thou sayest 
she is right fair. Thou art a true lady. As to 
her voice, I know not to what it may be com- 
pared, unless to the flow of waters.” 

“That were too cold,” said my lady. 

“A night-breeze, then,” said Garcilaso, 
fondly. “A warm night-breeze, laden with the 
breath of the flower-gardens of Seville. Look,” 
said he, drawing forth the silk scarf; “knowest 
what I hold? A talisman to fame and happi- 
ness. Thou shouldst have seen this bright red 


HOW I LOVED PETONILLA 


47 


scarf nestle against the satin of her dark and 
oval cheeks. This scarf was warm with her 
neck; it is permeated with the perfume of her 
breath; it is covered by my kisses. Margaret, 
I shall wear this at the tournament, and defy 
all good knights. I shall fight for Petonilla. 
But, Margaret, listen; thou knowest this Peton- 
illa — thou knowest whence she cometh. A true 
knight may not question the character of his 
lady-love. He may not breathe a doubt, nor 
suffer a doubt. But thou, my friend, wouldst 
warn me of danger/’ 

“Danger, Garcias? Explain!” 

“How may I speak more plainly? Margaret, 
thou knowest Petonilla.” 

“Garcias,” said she, quietly enough, but with 
eyes of steel, “thou hast said; no true knight 
doubteth his lady-love.” 

He was silent and confused. Suddenly she 
said, “Doth Petonilla love thee?” 

“How can I say? We have but met and 
parted. But, Margaret, I would now broach 
another subject, entirely different. Understand 
me, it is in no wise connected with that of 
Petonilla.” 


4 8 


GARCILASO 


“The more different, the more it will please 
me,” said Margaret, simply. “Never was a per- 
son more weary of a topic than I of Petonilla.” 

“Then I will pleasure thee. So no more of 
the Lady Fontane. I would speak of the Jews.” 

“Truly,” said Margaret, “what could be 
more unlike than Petonilla and a Jew?” 

“It is known to thee, Margaret, that in the 
past ten years during which the modern Inqui- 
sition hath been at work, it hath happily dis- 
patched many thousands of these wretches.” 

“I know it well, Garcias; also that the 
familiars and spies of the Holy Office are ever 
keen upon the scent for fresh victims.” 

“Margaret, dost thou not hate the Jews?” 

“Am not I a good Catholic?” she cried. 

“Yea; but so also is Herbert Klein, yet he 
hateth them not. Wouldst hold a Jew for a 
friend?” 

“Rather would I die,” said she, boldly, 
“than so debase myself!” Then was his heart 
light as touching Petonilla. Then was he sure 
Petonilla was no Jewess. Then went he forth 
with a blithe and merry heart, and a song upon 
his lips, a song of Old Castile. 


HOW I LOVED PETONILLA 


49 


How passed that day? What matter? It 
was long ago. But well I remember with what 
rapture I dreamed my golden daydream in the 
sun. I could not bear for any one to speak to 
me. I paced the street that skirted Petonilla’s 
tent. And when the queen rode forth, attended 
by her ladies, did not I see Margaret Guzman 
and Petonilla Fontane side by side, on palfreys 
splendidly bedecked? I drew my horse aside, 
and as with one voice we cried: “The queen! 
Castile for the queen!” it was upon Petonilla, 
the queen of my heart, that my eyes glowed. 
She saw me, and a right fair blush was my 
reward. Margaret watched us both; and me- 
thought her head drooped and her face was 
pale. Poor lady, thought I, thou pinest because 
thou lovest no one who hath given his heart to 
thee as I have given mine to that angel of light 
(thus I styled Petonilla). Ah, Margaret, though 
many knights have fallen at thy feet, and even 
fought for thy colors, and even died for them, 
yet for none of these hast thou felt love. So 
thou hast told me with thine own true lips. 
Poor Margaret! And doth my rapturous love 
for Petonilla pain thee as a glimpse of verdant 


5o 


GARCILASO 


meadows to a prisoner behind his bars? I 
hastened home to put the thought into verse, 
for I felt a poem welling up within me. 

Herbert Klein sat with a letter in his hand, 
and said he, ‘‘I have news here as touching the 
greatest man I ever saw. ’ ’ 

I gave him small heed, for he was a dreamer. 
I made my pen, and began to write, but 
methought the ideas in my mind (and they were 
very pretty) had much ado to clothe themselves 
in words. It was as if they lay cozily abed, and 
would not up and dress themselves for company. 
So I threw down the pen with “A murrain upon 
the gay science!” and then I said, “The greatest 
man, Herbert? Is it of the king?” 

Herbert laughed. “Not Ferdinand, ” said he. 

“Perchance thou hast seen few great men,” 
said Garcilaso, who, in truth, hath small sym- 
pathy with laughter. For why should a man 
utter uncouth and meaningless sounds that 
shock polite ears, because he hath what he is 
pleased to call “a sense of humor.” Thank 
heaven! Garcilaso is not pestered by any such 
a sense (if it be not nonsense), and he hath seen 
few things to laugh at in this world. 


HOW I LOVED PETONILLA 51 

“Thou forgettest, ’ ’ said Herbert, “that I 
have traveled the world over.” 

“I remember thou hast boasted as much, 
Herbert; but is that a sign thou knowest a 
great man when thou seest one? To every state 
God hath given manifold excellences; and it 
argues little for a traveler’s sagacity that he 
must hunt in foreign lands for perfections” 
(thus said Garcilaso). “But name me a few of 
thy great men, Herbert.” 

“Ariosto Ludovico of Reggio,” said Herbert, 
“is one; and though but seventeen, I read a 
most marvelous poem by this Ariosto. 
Another is Niccolo Machiavelli, scarce twenty- 
two, but a most consummate politician. Greater 
than these, Jerome Savonarola, the preacher of 
the convent San Marco, in Florence. Thou 
shouldst hear Fra Savonarola. Thou shouldst 
hear how he lays his cudgels about the ears of 
the priests.” 

“The priests!” I cried, in horror. 

“Yea, verily. Not only so, but he is not 
afraid to denounce the acts of the popes. He 
cries out that we need a great reformation in the 
church, that the clergy are rotten, the monas- 


5 2 


GARCILASO 


teries pools of iniquity, and the confessional a 
cloak to diabolical wiles.” 

“What saith the Blessed Pope to this 
fanatic?” I demanded. 

“The Pope applauds him,” replied the 
German. 

“Then that puts another face on the matter,” 
I hastened to add. “I admit a reformation is 
needed. Such doings as we see every day, 
Herbert — mind, I speak as a loyal Catholic! But 
thou knowest the love affairs of even our great 
Cardinal Mendoza. And few of the priests— I 
grieve to say it — suffer their Cardinal to outdo 
them in religion or love. And, alas, the 
Dominicans, who were once so poor and frugal 
in their living — see how they wax in luxuries and 
power! I am not blind, Herbert; I know the 
world hath run to a wicked day. But for all 
that, it is the only world we have.” 

“True enough, Laso. And I would I could 
tell thee some of the brilliant witticisms that have 
been uttered upon the times by a certain young 
man who calleth himself Erasmus. But I know 
thou dost not enjoy jokes.” 

“Not I,” said Garcilaso, with quiet dignity. 


HOW I LOVED PETONILLA 


53 


“Jokes never maintained a government, paid 
honor to a sovereign, nor yielded fealty to God. 
Every jest is one step downward from civili- 
zation. So spare me thy jokes; leave them to 
the base-born. But from whom is thy letter?” 

“It is from a certain merchant of Seville. 
His name — ” 

“Nay, what care I for this merchant’s 
name?” Garcilaso interposed, haughtily. “May 
his name perish with his mean business! Time 
was when our fathers lived upon the booty of 
their enemies. Now we pay a price for what 
once was stripped from brave foes.” 

“Yet his name may one day be known,” said 
the German, stolidly; “and I never knew word or 
argument of mine to deflect him one degree from 
the course he had set out upon, “for he is a 
restless body, and goeth from place to place, 
and may so even get himself into fame. His 
name, it is Americus Vespucius, this merchant; 
and he writeth of the greatest man I ever saw.” 

“Now to the point,” said Garcilaso. 

“Hast heard of the old man,” said Herbert, 
“who for years hath dragged after the royal 
court, seeking’ interviews with the sovereigns, 


54 


GARCILASO 


making his living by drawing maps and charts, 
and who hath even taken part in the wars 
against the Moors? His name is Christopher 
Columbus.” 

“I have never heard of him,” said Garcilaso. 
“In what is he so great?” 

“In this, that he dreameth of a passage 
across the unknown sea, that he hath made bold 
to sue the king for ships to take him into that 
region of dragons and witches into which no 
man hath ever ventured, and that he proveth 
by the clearest logic that beyond that dead 
waste lieth the unknown shore of India.” 

“It is passing fearsome,” said Garcilaso, 
after a pause. “But will the king give his ships 
for this wicked purpose (for if God had intended 
that ocean to be traveled, would it not have 
been traveled before this day)?” 

“The king hesitateth,” said Herbert. “But 
the queen holdeth forth hopes. Now is not 
the mind of Columbus great to harbor such a 
dream?” 

“It is true,” said Garcilaso; “for when did 
a great dream come to a small mind? But, 
Herbert, by the same token I also am great; 


HOW I LOVED PETONILLA 


55 


for I had a dream this day as wonderful as the 
vagary of this Columbus/’ 

“And what didst dream, Garcias?” 

“I dreamed that Petonilla was my bride,” 
said Garcilaso in a voice of softness. 

Then up started the German, and he muttered 
some words I could not hear. I stared at him, 
for his face was moved. “How now, Herbert? 
And what aileth thee?” 

“Some one cometh,” said the German, in his 
usual phlegmatic manner. And sure enough, 
Hernando Perez del Pulgar entered. At the 
sight of my Lord Captain quick displeasure 
leaped up within me. 

“My Lord,” said I; “my Lord Captain, hear 
the words that I but spoke the German knight!” 

“I heard them,” said the crusty warrior. 

“Then hear them again,” cried Garcilaso. 
“It is my dream to make Petonilla my bride.” 

“Many a man,” said Pulgar, severely, “yea, 
many a good knight hath dreamed his fate, then 
gone forth blithely to meet it. But by the Holy 
Virgin and by the blood of Januarius” (thus he 
spoke), “Petonilla shall never marry thee /” 

“I swear to thee,” cried Garcilaso, “I swear 


56 


GARCILASO 


to thee by the bones of all the blessed saints, I 
swear that if she will marry me, she may!” 

“Wouldst marry a Jewess?” 

“As soon would I wed with a beggar,” re- 
torted Garcilaso, haughtily. “What, a Jewess! 
I marry a vile heretic? Thou hast heaped 
insult upon insult. Petonilla is no Jewess, but 
thou art a base knight ! Thou shalt cross swords 
with me before to-morrow’s sun.” 

“So be it,” said Pulgar. “We will fight 
together. But remember, rash fool” (it was 
thus he addressed Garcilaso de la Vega, the 
Lord of Bartras), “that my only object in pre- 
venting thy marriage with the cream-faced lady 
is because I love thee.” 

I drew my sword in a wild fury. “A mur- 
rain on thy love!” I roared. “Defend thyself.” 
But he folded his arms. 

“Hearken, young Garcilaso,” said he. “I 
have an enterprise on foot for this very night. 
Put up thy sword and listen. Thou knowest 
how Yarfe the Moor did cast his lance against 
the good queen’s tent, and tied thereto was a 
message which no true Spaniard deigns to 
repeat. This deed must be avenged. This 


HOW I LOVED PETONILLA 


57 


night I shall go with fifteen brave cavaliers — we 
shall surprise and take one of the gates, and we 
shall do a deed that will make a noise! Yet all 
this must be kept secret, since the king forbids 
us to make such adventures. But after it is 
accomplished, he cannot in heart punish us. 
Thus will we avenge the honor of the queen, 
whom God and the Holy Virgin protect!” 

“Don Hernando,” said I, “I will make one of 
the fifteen.” 

“I have refused a hundred offers,” said 
Pulgar. 

“Then,” said Herbert, in his slow way, “I 
will not pain thee by making thee refuse me" 

“I have refused a hundred,” said Pulgar, 
no more noticing him than he had been a fly; 
“but I choose thee, Garcilaso, for thou art bold, 
and I love thee.” 

“I thank thee,” said Garcilaso, stiffly. 
“And after the adventure, thou wilt meet me 
in fight?” 

“That will I, with swords,” said he. “And 
if I do not effectually put the thought of marry- 
ing out of thy head, may my own head fall!” 

Pulgar stalked away. “Now heaven defend 


58 


GARCILASO 


me,” said Herbert, “from this love which leads 
to a falling of heads! But, Laso, wouldst hear 
this news about Columbus?” 

“Herbert Klein,” I answered, with dignity, 
“I have more serious matters for my medita- 
tion.” And he knew from my tone that he 
could venture no more. 


CHAPTER V 

HOW WE DASHED INTO GRANADA 

As the night grew late, I ordered my fleetest 
steed caparisoned, then sent all my varlets to 
bed. Herbert Klein had long since retired. I 
sat, encased in complete armor, waiting the 
signal from Hernando Pulgar. I knew not upon 
what enterprise I was about to embark, but I 
was sure from the past record of my captain — he 
of the “Exploits” — that it would be one of 
audacity and danger. The fact that it was to 
be kept secret, and that only fifteen cavaliers 
were to accompany him, liked me well. I was 
in a mood for perils. My love for Petonilla 
could find no fitter expression than in a wild 
battle-charge ; and my anger against Pulgar (who 
had called Petonilla “cream-faced lady”) 
demanded a similar expression. Let blood flow; 
ay, let lances be splintered! And after the 
exploit, let Pulgar (though my captain) meet me 
in honorable duel. St. James be with me (thus 
thought I), St. James and my lady! A low call 
59 


6o 


GARCILASO 


reached my ears from without. It was the son 
of the Duke of Medina Sidonia, a right valiant 
knight; and with him was Rodrigo Juan Ponce 
de Leon, a cousin of the Marquis of Cadiz. I 
went out in the gloom, and saw their helmeted 
forms loom above me in the saddles. “Follow,” 
whispered young Ponce de Leon. I leaped 
upon my horse, and after them at a slow pace, 
that we might not arouse attention by rapid 
hoofbeats. We passed through the guard, who 
had been propitiated by our captain, we crossed 
the fortified line, and found ourselves in the 
open Vega. Shadowy horsemen rode up to us. 
There was Pulgar at their head ; also I discovered 
the two renowned brothers, Gonsalvo de Cor- 
dova — known in after years throughout the 
world as “The Great Captain” — and Alonso 
Fernandez de Cordova, that mighty and puis- 
sant Lord of Aguilar. But why name the rest? 
This is not their story, but the story of Gar- 
cilaso. Search their names in history ; but let 
this be enough to show the excellency of our 
company. 

As by a common impulse we brought the 
heads of our horses close to the horse on which 


HOW WE DASHED INTO GRANADA 6 1 


the captain sat, so that we formed a ghostly 
circle about him. Thus we awaited orders. 
“Brave cavaliers,” said Pulgar, speaking no 
louder than he need, “the reason of this expe- 
dition is known to thee — we would avenge the 
insult to our good queen, we would pay back 
our debt to Yarfe the Moor.” 

“St. James with us!” murmured the knights. 

“We shall ride softly to the second postern 
gate, that openeth upon the Darro,” pursued 
Pulgar. “There be a guard on foot, which we 
must disperse. The gate must be forced. Then, 
look you. While ye keep that gate, I shall dash 
alone into the heart of Granada, seek the great 
mosque, and fasten upon its door this tablet.” 
He held up some object, which, of course, we 
could not discern. 

“What is the tablet?” inquired Ponce de 
Leon. 

“It beareth but two words,” said our grim 
captain — “Ave Maria.” 

There was a murmur of fierce and holy joy 
among us. We would have shouted, had we 
not feared to rouse the enemy. That the name 
of our Blessed Lady, the Holy Virgin, should 


62 


GARCILASO 


be attached to their impious mosque — that in 
the very center of that heathenish city an Ave 
Maria should be lodged — this caused our hearts 
to leap with rapture. Ah, how the Moors would 
rave when they discovered that pure legend in 
their midst ! 

Pulgar continued: “ Remember, I go alone 
to do this — alone in the midst of thousands and 
thousands of the foe. When done, I shall 
hasten back to the postern gate. Keep it for 
me, brave knights; for when I return, if the 
Moors have driven you back, and have closed 
the gate — woe is me!” 

“Never,” cried Garcilaso de la Vega, “never 
shall I leave that postern gate without thee, my 
Lord Captain. For either will I bear thee 
thence or there yield up the ghost ! I swear it 
by St. James and by my lady.” And the other 
knights all swore the same oath, by St. James of 
Compostella (whose name be blessed !) and their 
lady-loves. 

“But after that,” said Garcilaso, when they 
had made an end of swearing, “and after we 
have brought thee safe out of the lion’s maw” 
(thus he spoke), “thou shalt meet me in duel, 


HOW WE DASHED INTO GRANADA 63 

because thou hast reproached the lady of my 
heart !” 

“I shall meet thee, poor youth,” said the old 
warrior, and all the knights bare him witness; “I 
shall meet thee with the sword, and prove that 
what I said as touching thy lady-love is true.” 

“And I shall disprove it with thy life,” cried 
Garcilaso hotly. 

Then we rode softly across the great plain, 
and came to the Darro, and nigh the walls of 
Granada. The second postern gate was ill 
attended, for it had been long since the Span- 
iards had made an attack upon the city. The 
commands of Ferdinand were known to the 
Moors, how we should no longer risk our lives 
in partial encounters, and they never dreamed 
that those orders would be disobeyed. We rode 
into the foot-guard, who were terrified and not 
yet well awake, and who never woke (for we 
slew them every one), and thus we found our- 
selves in Granada, almost in a twinkling. We 
had met no resistance worthy of a knight, and I 
would scorn to name how many wretches we 
hewed down, so easily was it done. Hernando 
Pulgar, staying neither for word nor sign, gal- 


6 4 


GARCILASO 


loped through the sleeping city, bearing his 
tablet; and in the midnight darkness we saw 
the sparks thrown back by his horse’s hoofs. 

“Allah! Allah Akbar!” came the cry as the 
Moorish cavaliers, awakened by the thundering 
hoofs, looked from their doors and windows. 
The cries of the dying foot-guard, also, had not 
been in vain. Forms flitted in shadows, lights 
sprang forth, the city awoke. The trained 
bands gathered at their posts, the knights 
donned their suits of mail and called for their 
horses. We drew up in silent form before the 
postern gate, like unto a fence of iron, for our 
horses were protected by shining plates of metal. 
And shine they did, and sparkle and gleam did 
our helmets, as ruddy fires leaped up and cried 
alarm in the street. Before us was a castle-wall, 
cut with narrow openings, and now through 
these a volley of arrows were sped. And well 
we knew that the Moors scorned not to dip their 
arrow-tips in rank poison; and well we knew 
that so much as a scratch from those hurtling 
weapons meant death. And “Pray heaven send 
Pulgar soon again,” whispered Enriquez, the 
Adelantado of Andalusia. 


HOW WE DASHED INTO GRANADA 65 


Now by my side sat a brave young horseman, 
a dear cavalier, named Bertran de Cerda, and he 
was none other than the son of the first wife of 
the Duke Medina Celi. And “St. James with 
us!” I heard him whisper to himself, “and the 
love of Margaret give me valor.” 

Scarce had he spoke those words when an 
arrow struck his horse fair in the head. The 
beast reared with a frightful scream, and Bertran 
was unhorsed. But up rose he, and stood beside 
me, while his horse quivered in the last agonies. 

“Good my lord,” said Garcilaso, “be not 
dismayed, for when we ride hence, thou shalt 
ride behind me!” 

He thanked me warmly, for he was young. 

Then said Garcilaso, “My Lord Bertran, thou 
hast named Margaret thy lady-love. An it be 
Margaret Guzman, no lady is dearer to me, save 
my own true love.” 

“It is Margaret Guzman,” said he. “I 
thank thee for the gracious word, Don Garcilaso 
de la Vega.” 

“Margaret and I were reared together from 
early childhood,” said Garcilaso (who made no 
more of the swarming arrows than they had been 


66 


GARCILASO 


gnats); “and tell me, as to a brother, loveth she 
as thou lovest?” 

“Alas, Don Garcilaso,” said the young 
Bertran, “she loveth me not; but I do not 
despair; the time may yet come when she will 
love me with her soul.” (And in truth he had 
longer to wait for that time than Margaret, see- 
ing that he was at least five years younger than 
she, but this I did not say.) 

“God bless thy lady, Margaret,” said Gar- 
cilaso. 

“Thanks to thee. And thy lady-love?” 

“Petonilla, ” said Garcilaso, softly. 

“God bless thy lady, Petonilla,” said he. 

Having thus exchanged the names of our 
lady-loves (a right knightly courtesy), we faced 
the enemy, and indeed the time had come. 

The arrows had ceased their idle play upon 
us. And why? Because a body of Moorish 
nobles had come to charge upon us. They 
formed at the head of the street which ran along 
the grim wall. With cries of vengeance, and 
appeals to Mohamet and their God (who is not 
our God), they couched their lances. We did 
the same, and wheeled abreast to receive them. 


HOW WE DASHED INTO GRANADA 67 


As they started at us with furious pace, we 
dashed toward them — all except Bertran, who, 
being unhorsed, was fain to stand with his back 
against the wall and wait the issue. We came 
together with a terrific shock; not a lance but 
was splintered. Four of the Moors were thrown 
upon the ground ; not one of the Christians was 
unhorsed. The other Moors dashed away to 
make a second charge. Some of our company 
wheeled to meet them, while others leaped to 
the ground and dispatched the prostrate infidels. 
No mercy was shown. In the mean time a great 
body of Moorish soldiers had paused at the head 
of the street. Seeing we were equally matched, 
they showed a right true chivalry in holding off. 
As only eleven of the Moorish knights remained, 
three of our horsemen drew back, that the gentle 
play might be finished equally. Then, eleven to 
eleven, we charged, this time with poised spear. 
As for Garcilaso, he had withdrawn to give fair 
play. Young Bertran stood beside him. 

We watched the sport, he with his gantlet 
upon my horse’s mane. When he saw five of 
the Moors rolled into the dust, and others of our 
men draw out of the fray, said he, “My Lord of 


68 


GARCILASO 


Bartras, give me, I pray thee, thy horse, and let 
me make one against the six who remain. Thou 
knowest how I was unhorsed at the very begin- 
ning. Grant that I may take a tilt for the honor 
of Margaret.” 

I could not say him nay. Then out rode 
young Bertran with five others to oppose the 
six sable knights. This time the conflict was 
with swords. As foe rushed upon foe, each 
valiant arm sought to plunge its blade into a 
vulnerable spot. Sparks flew upward as swords 
clashed upon iron and steel. My Lord Ponce 
thrust his antagonist fairly through the bars of 
his visor, and so put out his light. The Lord 
of Aguilar did the same to his Moor. Gonsalvo 
unhorsed his foe, and slew him by thrusting his 
sword (it was a terrific show of strength) clean 
through his linked suit of mail. For the first 
time two Christians were unhorsed. One was 
instantly dispatched. The other (it was young 
Bertran) leaped to his feet, with his sword unin- 
jured. His foe, disdaining to ride him down, 
alighted, and so at him. Their blades were 
broken. They clasped each other in their arms 
and swayed back and forth. Of all the Moorish 


HOW WE DASHED INTO GRANADA 69 


knights, but two were alive — he who wrestled 
with Bertran and the one who had dispatched 
the Christian. We thirteen Spanish nobles 
stood in grim silence looking upon that duel. 
A great throng of Moors also respectfully gazed 
thereon. Among them I saw Yarfe the Moor. 
Back and forth swayed Bertran and his dusky 
enemy. Silent, almost breathless, stood we. 
My good horse had come to me as soon as 
Bertran fell. He stood beside me, his eyes 
bloodshot, his nostrils dilated with the scent of 
battle. I was too much engaged to mount. 
Ah, heaven, thought I, send succor to brave 
young Bertran ! And I looked up, and thought 
to see the apparition of St. James upon his milk- 
white steed, hovering above Granada; but I saw 
it not. Then burst a cry from our knights, 
“He is down!” Yes, Bertran had fallen! The 
Moor paused an instant as if he would fain have 
spared his foe. 

“Margaret!” cried Bertran; “Margaret, and 
our lady, Queen Isabella!” 

“A ransom!” I cried, in an agony. 

The Moor looked at me thoughtfully. 

Then out thundered Yarfe the Moor, “Thy 


7 ° 


GARCILASO 


ransom perish with thee ! Vengeance! And may 
Granada fall before a Moor takes ransom again 
for an infidel dog!” Then Bertran was thrust 
through and through, and thus he died. 

This was an end of that gentle encounter. 
Scarce had the life-blood of Bertran de Cerda 
bathed the blade of the heathen, when the 
Moors poured down upon us, with yells and 
heretical cries peculiar to their accursed religion. 
Scarce had I time to mount, when I was in the 
midst of a seething vortex. Ah, heaven! Ah, 
St. James! What a turmoil was that! We 
were overwhelmed, we were suffocated— it was as 
if a great sea-wave had washed over our bodies. 
The Moors streamed between us, they forced us 
from that postern gate, they beat us back and 
back until we were far up the street. We 
became separated. Ponce de Leon abode near 
me, and the young Guzman, cousin of Margaret, 
and son of the Duke of Medina Sidonia. We 
three made great havoc ; our arms became weary 
with the blows we dealt. But the sweeping of 
that stream of Moorish cavalry, how could three 
withstand? Yet, thank God, we strewed our 
path with corpses! 


HOW WE DASHED INTO GRANADA 71 


As for Garcilaso, it would ill become him to 
relate what he achieved that night. But all the 
while he was looking for Yarfe the Moor. Let 
him not number the heads he cleaved from 
ungodly shoulders, let him not boast of how he 
snatched naked swords from heretics, when his 
own sword was shivered, or blunted with mighty 
hacking. And all the while, “Petonilla,” cried 
he, “Petonilla” — that dear name was cried 
forth from a frenzied heart, a heart frantic for 
vengeance for poor Bertran. Ah, how many 
heard that lady’s name that night, and hearing 
it, heard never word again ! 

At last we three set our horses side by side 
under the protection of an overhanging wall, 
and said Juan Ponce de Leon, as he panted like 
one spent with hard running, “How shall we 
gain the postern gate, and how draw our com- 
rades to our side? Behold, they fight from one 
end of the street to the other, though but thir- 
teen of us.” 

“Let us,” said young Guzman, “cry in 
chorus, and it may be we can raise such a din 
it will be heard above this fearsome turmoil. 
Let us cry, ‘Our Vow!’ ” “So all together we 


7 2 


GARCILASO 


shouted forth with a hearty will, ‘Our vow! Our 
vow!’ ” Whereat, our comrades began to force 
their way toward the gate, since it was our vow 
to die there, or rescue Pulgar. As we wedged 
ourselves forward, a great cry arose behind us. 
Looking back, I saw Hernando Pulgar dashing 
toward us, the foam flying from his horse. And 
there opposing him was a company of brave 
Moors. Pulgar leaped his steed fair into their 
midst, and struck from right to left, as was his 
fashion, a sword in either hand. We three 
wheeled about, and made for to be his body- 
guard. But we were not quick enough. A 
venomous and cowardly thrust from below 
brought his horse upon his knees, and our brave 
captain was unhorsed. 

“St. James for Castile!’’ he thundered, deal- 
ing blows with marvelous rapidity. Then Yarfe, 
upon a gigantic steed, such as befitted his own 
gigantic proportions, cried to his friends, “Make 
way!’’ They formed a line, and the giant pre- 
pared to ride down my Lord Captain. And 
sure, Pulgar was in such a strait that he could 
do nothing. And seeing that in his arm was no 
power to deliver himself, he turned his face 


HOW WE DASHED INTO GRANADA 73 


upward and whispered an Ave Maria. Yarfe 
drew back his coal-black steed upon his 
haunches, then drove home his spurs, and held 
aloft his spear. The great horse bounded for- 
ward, and struck fire from the stones as he shot 
down upon the grizzled warrior. 

But Yarfe had not reckoned upon Garcilaso, 
who once snatched his maiden prey from him, 
and was now about to deliver from him the 
heroic Pulgar. For Garcilaso had plunged 
toward Pulgar even as Yarfe at the other end of 
the street was striking his spurs into his rearing 
steed. Among the heathen plunged Garcilaso, 
with de Leon and de Medina Sidonia to guard 
his rear. So intent were the Moors on watching 
Yarfe’ s advance that they thought not to guard 
their supposed victim. With a blow of my 
sword I laid low the Moor nearest to Pulgar, 
and “Up, my Captain,’’ cried I, “up behind 
me!’’ Quick as the stroke of a Christian he was 
upon my horse, and away we sped toward the 
postern, while my two comrades defended us. 
Yea, and Pulgar and I were both forced to deal 
out blows before we reached the gate. Here 
was a wild struggle, for the Christians had much 


74 


GARCILASO 


ado to hold the gate. But seeing us approach, 
they gave a wild yell, and took fiercer heart; 
and so, in some manner, as out of a hideous 
dream, we got us out of that beleaguered city. 
When the postern gate was closed after us, and 
strongly fortified (as you may be sure), and see- 
ing that no Moors came after us, I turned 
around to my mate, Pulgar, who must needs 
ride behind me still, and I said, “My Lord 
Captain, art thou of the same opinion that 
where there is double there is trouble?” 

He said never a word. We rode on till the 
Christian camp was near to view. And then 
said I, “My Lord Captain, if it please thee, we 
will dismount and fight for the honor of 
Petonilla. ” 


CHAPTER VI 

I FIGHT MY LORD CAPTAIN 

I leaped to the ground, and Pulgar descended 
more slowly — not from fear, but from the stiff- 
ness that many years accumulate upon us. “By 
my good sword,” cried young Ponce de Leon, 
“ye two shall not fight, if word of mine may 
avail!” 

“We will fight,” said I, “unless my Lord 
Captain retracteth his words as touching my 
Lady Fontane.” 

“I retract nothing,” said the hardy Pulgar. 

We faced each other in the darkness, sur- 
rounded by the vast solitude of the barren plain. 

“My Lord Captain,” said Ponce, appealing to 
my antagonist, “wilt thou fight the young cavalier 
after that he hath saved thy life, and borne thee 
from the Moors on his own good steed?” 

“Indeed,” said Pulgar, “and this duel is not 
to my taste. I want not his life, nor to yield 
up mine own. But it is for him to refuse the 
combat.” 


75 


7 6 


GARCILASO 


“To the death,” cried I, “for Petonilla!” 

“Yet hold,” said de Leon; “Garcilaso, dost 
know that as ye twain escaped ahorse my Lord 
Pulgar did save thee from a Moorish stroke that 
might well have put out thy light? I saw how 
he did thrust out his arm, thou unlooking, and 
receive the blow meant for thy vitals upon his 
own arm.” 

“Since this be true,” said I, coldly, “and if 
Lord Pulgar would escape duel on the grounds 
that he saved my life — ” 

“Never, never!” cried the old warrior. “On 
no other grounds would I evade combat save 
upon the ground of thy love. An thou lovest 
me not enough to take advice from me, thou art 
not my friend!” 

“By heaven!” said I, “my love is strong 
enough for no man that it can bear advice upon 
my personal affairs!” 

“Garcilaso hath the advantage,” persisted 
de Leon; “for in this gloom he can see better 
than an old man. If he be a true knight, he will 
not fight upon such unequal terms.” 

“Now by my beard,” cried Pulgar, in a fury, 
“who saith mine eyes cannot pierce a stone wall 


I FIGHT MY LORD CAPTAIN 


77 


as far as another’s? As to my being old, by 
heaven! never before was Hernando Perez del 
Pulgar reproached therewith.” 

“Have done with thy meddling, Ponce de 
Leon,” cried the other knights, who had a mind 
to witness our engagement. 

“And yet one moment,” cried that cavalier. 
“It may well be that Pulgar may fall. Let him 
tell us how he wrought in Granada, else we 
may never hear of it.” 

“Few words, ” said the old captain. “I rode 
straight to the great mosque; I knelt before its 
door, and dedicated it to our Blessed Virgin. 
Then I nailed the Ave Maria upon the portal, 
leaped upon my horse, spurred through the 
gathering throng, was unhorsed, was picked 
up by Garcilaso — am here to repay his kind- 
ness. ” 

“Few words and a great deed,” said I. 
“Come, let us begin.” 

“I am ready,” said my Lord Captain. 

Surely it was a singular encounter, the young 
knight fighting for his dear lady, the grizzled 
chief defending himself because he had accused 
that dear lady of being a Jewess. It was draw- 


78 


GARCILASO 


ing toward morning, but the darkness had not 
begun to lift. We faced each other, two 
shadowy forms, surrounded by eleven shadowy 
horsemen. Being completely encased in noble 
armor, our features were not to be distin- 
guished. Indeed, scarce anything was to be 
seen but the blades of our swords. In certain 
positions these showed as faint lines of white, 
moving as it were of their own accord, as they 
had been alive. As they shot forward and 
struck upon metal and recoiled, they appeared 
as flashes of pale light, and the sparks they 
threw up were like globules of melted iron, red 
as a dawning. Our visors were protected with 
narrow iron bars, and it was my endeavor to 
thrust my blade through two of these, and so 
at his head. But so dark was the night, skill 
became chance. 

One thing I wondered at; I received few 
blows from Pulgar, and these fell lightly upon 
me. The fame of his fearsome armstroke was 
throughout Spain, and I knew he dealt me none 
of these blows. My rage boiled. “A truce to thy 
mercy, I cried. “I give my best, I will take 
no less. Strike for thy life, and for thy honor/’ 


I FIGHT MY LORD CAPTAIN 


79 


And I beset him so desperately that I smote his 
sword from his hand. It clanked at his feet, 
and I paused for him to lift it up. He did so 
without a word ; but no sooner had we begun 
our play once more, when I discovered how oddly 
came his blows, how wild, how misdirected. 
Haughty anger rushed throughout my veins at 
being thus trifled with. I set upon him with 
redoubled vigor, crying, “Thou wilt find that 
Garcilaso is worthy of thy best play!” 

And then my sword with a quick forward 
blow found what it had sought, an opening 
somewhere, and it went blithely through, nor 
this time smote on helmet or breastplate. When 
I drew it forth, the warm blood ran down upon 
my hand. And Pulgar fell. I rushed upon 
him, and set my foot upon his prostrate form. 
“Yield!” cried I. 

“Never!” returned my Lord Captain. 
“Make an end of me, I pray thee.” 

But it was as if my heart had turned to the 
heart of a woman. “Retract thy words as 
touching Petonilla,” I cried, “and live.” 

“Never,” said he; “I believe I spake truth.” 

Yet would I give him one more chance. “At 


8o 


GARCILASO 


least confess thou hast not fought me with all 
thy might.’' 

“But I have,” said he; “I did what I could.” 

I stood looking down upon the motion- 
less form. I took my foot away, as remember- 
ing how often he had led me to victory. The 
cavaliers who surrounded us spake never a word, 
thinking they heard the voice of their leader for 
the last time. What could I do? To spare him 
was to prove false to my lady-love. And yet 
I temporized. 

“My dear Lord Captain,” said I (for I no 
longer hated him, but loved him with a wild 
yearning), thou canst not speak falsely to any 
man. But do I not know the valor of thine 
arm? Yet throughout this duel thy blows have 
been but feather-weights, and even they fell 
amiss. How can it be that thou didst what 
thou couldst?” 

“Garcias, I fought thee with my left arm.” 

“And why, oh Pulgar, hast thou shown me 
this despite? Were Garcilaso not worthy thy 
prowess?” 

“Garcias,” said he, right softly, “my right 
arm was sore wounded, and my right hand can- 


I FIGHT MY LORD CAPTAIN 


81 


not grasp a sword. For when the Moor would 
have plunged his spear into thy vitals — thou 
heardst young Ponce de Leon say it — I sought 
to stay the blow, for thou wast not looking upon 
that side. I had no time to even raise my 
sword. But as the spear-point came at thee, 
I threw mine arm in its course, and right well I 
know that my right arm is broken, and for 
thee.” 

Then upon his knees fell Garcilaso, upon his 
knees beside his fallen captain. And he removed 
visor and helmet from the fallen one, and put 
his mailed arm about his chief, and would have 
spoken, but his sobs would not give his words 
a way. And when he found that speech was not 
in his power, Garcilaso removed his own visor, 
and did kiss his captain upon either cheek. 
And yet, and yet — what to do? For the honor 
of Petonilla remained unvindicated. “Where did 
I thrust thee?” asked Garcilaso, when he could. 

“In the right thigh,” said Pulgar; “it is no 
great matter.” 

“My lord,” said Garcias, “upon my knees 
I beg thee (for I no longer command), take back, 
take back thy words concerning Petonilla.” 


82 


GARCILASO 


“Garcias,” said he, quietly, “in the name of 
the blessed saints, and by the blood of St. 
Januarius, I cannot, for I believe them true. 
Oh, Garcias, beware, beware of that maiden, for 
she is not of the true faith, but of the heresy of 
the Jews!’ ’ 

I rose, not in fury, but in despair. “Knights- 
banneret,” said I, “and knights-bachelor, is 
there a way to save this brave man? He hath 
accused my lady of — of — no matter” (for they 
had not heard the low words of my captain). 
“No matter, ” said I, “of what he accuseth 
her, but his words do her wrong. Yet he will 
not retract. And must I slay him to prove her 
honor?” 

“Hear my counsel,” said Juan Ponce de 
Leon, after a long pause. “In less than a 
month is the great tournament.” 

“Ah,” said I, quickly, “but the queen no 
longer permits bloody encounters. Each lance 
is tipped with a wooden edge.” 

“Wait, I am not done,” said de Leon. 

“Besides,” spoke young Guzman, “Lord 
Pulgar’s wounds would scarce be healed in that 
time.” 


I FIGHT MY LORD CAPTAIN 


33 


“Will ye not let me speak?” cried de Leon, 
angrily. 

“In heaven’s name,” said I, for I was 
unnerved, “speak till thy tongue stiffen, an it 
pleasure thee!” 

“This I would suggest,” said de Leon, veil- 
ing his fury. “If by that time our captain doth 
not hand thee the written proofs of his words, 
written proofs against thy lady, then meet me 
in the tournament. And, as I live,” cried de 
Leon, “the wooden edge of my lance will have 
an iron edge beneath it!” 

“How now?” cried Garcilaso. “The 
queen — ” 

“Tush!” cried de Leon; “accidents happen, 
and lives are spent in the most playful tourna- 
ments. It will be an accident that our lances 
forgot to get them wooden edges, and that our 
swords forgot to procure them blunted blades. 
I will fight for Lord Pulgar.” 

“I accept thy offer,” said our captain; “and 
the more readily because well I know that by 
that time I shall have the proofs. I swear to 
thee, Garcias Laso, that I shall deliver to thee 
a letter, writ by thy lady’s own fair hand, admit- 


8 4 


GARCILASO 


ting all or worse. I pray thee, Garcias, accept 
de Leon’s proffered aid in this matter.” 

“ ’Tis agreed,” said I. “And the blood of 
Ponce de Leon be upon his own rash head! As 
for thee, my Lord Captain, my heart leaps with 
joy that I may spare thy life.” Then, with the 
help of two good knights, we got him safe upon 
a horse and led him gently to his own home, 
where his varlets (for he had no wife) dressed 
his wounds. Then I to my own tent, right glad 
that I had saved the honor of my lady, and feel- 
ing assured that no proof of her imperfection 
would ever be brought to me. And I smiled a 
grim smile as I thought how I would meet that 
Ponce de Leon in combat, and have his life; for 
from of old the Ponces and the Guzmans had 
lived in deadly feud. The morning was about 
to break upon an ungrateful world. Come, dear 
sun, thought I, and shine for Petonilla; awake, 
sweet birds, and sing for Petonilla. And may 
the mint in which this day’s hours are soon 
to be coined stamp each round golden hour 
with the sign of heaven’s benediction upon 
Petonilla!” 


CHAPTER VII 

MARGARET IS IN A RARE TEMPER 

King Ferdinand sent for us to attend the 
audience. We went, twelve of us, for Pulgar 
lay low with his wounds. Who had not heard 
of our mighty deed in Granada? The king 
looked from face to face to see what knights had 
disobeyed him by meeting the Moors in battle. 
He knew two Christians had been sacrificed for 
the honor of his queen, and he could ill afford 
to lose them. But when he saw the face of 
Garcilaso, who once did save his life, and that 
of the Guzman and the Ponce, and the bold 
front of Gonsalvo de Cordova and his brother, 
the Lord of Aguilar, our king stayed the hard 
words that would, mayhap, have fallen to the 
lot of less puissant and noble knights. With 
that exquisite tact which distinguished our 
sovereign, he expressed pride in our achieve- 
ment, grief for our fallen brothers, displeasure at 
our disobedience, and joy in our daring. So 
evenly did he mix these contrary emotions that 
85 


86 


GARCILASO 


he scarce let us perceive we were being repri- 
manded for our act. Thus by his polished 
wiles we received censure with a good grace, 
and no pride hurt. In truth, no man (unless 
Cardinal Mendoza) ever knew just what emotion 
moved the heart of Ferdinand the Catholic, and 
least of all by his words. So we went forth, not 
knowing if he were glad or sorry, but knowing 
right well that we must not venture such a 
hazard again. 

Then Garcilaso to the tent of my Lady 
Margaret. 4 ‘Garcias,” said she, as he took her 
hand, “I have heard of thine exploit. Thou art 
an unkind friend!” 

“How so?” said Garcilaso, making for to 
draw back his hand, but he thought she clung 
to it, and so let it be. 

“Thou didst adventure thy life in Granada,” 
she complained; “thou mightest well have fallen 
under an infidel stroke. Yet thou didst not 
come to pay me thine adieus.” 

“It was a secret,” said Garcilaso, surprised 
at her tone. “And if I had died, wouldst thou 
have thought the less of me for that?” 

“If thou hadst died!” said she, clinging yet 


MARGARET IS IN A RARE TEMPER 87 


to his hand; ‘‘ah, Garcias, little dost thou 
know — ” And then she paused ; and then she 
said, “What name didst cry in battle?” 

“What name? What name but Petonilla?” 
said Garcilaso, more and more bewildered. 
“Sure, my lady, thinkest I am no true knight?” 

Then did she change — I cannot tell how; 
but it seemed that she grew cold and pale and 
proud. Her hand slipped from his, and she 
drew back. “Happy is the one,” said she, 
“who expecteth little of his friends!” 

“Nay, sweet lady, take not that tone. I 
know thy thought. And were I to venture to 
enter into thine intimate heart, I could bring 
thee some comfort. I know thou hast never 
loved,” said Garcilaso, “and therefore knowest 
not the emotions that thrill my soul at the 
thought of Petonilla.” 

“Garcias, Garcias,” said she, “that friend 
wears the longest whom we wear the least!” 

Garcilaso could only stare at her and wonder 
if she meant aught. In truth they seemed mere 
words with no relevancy. At last he spoke: 
“Some one hath displeasured thee to-day. A 
maiden hath lost thy bracelet, or thy falcon 


88 


GARC1LAS0 


hath wandered afield. But let me tell thee 
what will be sweet to thee. Didst know young 
Bertran de Cerda?” 

“Nay, I knew him not. What is he to me?” 

“He is this to thee,” cried Garcilaso, stung 
by her indifferent tone; “he died in Granada, 
even before mine eyes, with thy name upon his 
lips.” 

“My name?” 

“Yea, for he did love thee. ‘ Margaret , ’ 
said he, and died.” 

“Bertran de Cerda,” repeated Margaret, 
slowly. “Methinks I have seen the knight — 
ah, yes, it was in Salamanca — nay, Barcelona — 
nay, I know not if ever I looked upon his face. 
How strange is this!” 

“Not so, fair lady; thy face is one to light 
romantic fuel into the blaze of love.” 

“How darest thou use such words to me?” 
cried she, her eyes burning with wrath. “Speak 
not of love to me, or of my face. Let my face 
be to thee as the face of a stranger!” 

“By heaven,” cried Garcilaso, so amazed he 
gave himself no time to become angry, “Mar- 
garet, thou art mad! I but spoke of another’s 


MARGARET IS IN A RARE TEMPER 89 


love for thee. Thou knowest I love Petonilla. 
Thou knowest I am but thy friend. Margaret, 
I did not pretend love for thee. Think not so 
ill of Garcilaso.” 

“It were ill, indeed,” cried she, her cheeks 
like roses. “I understand thee not, Don 
Garcilaso.” 

“Then we are equally unhorsed,” said Gar- 
cilaso (he drew his figure from the tournament). 
“I pray thee, let me tell thee how thy lover, 
Bertran, did fight, calling forth thy name.” 

“Call him not my lover,” she cried. “Speak 
no more of him, I pray!” 

“Thy heart is hard and cold,” cried the 
knight. “Thou scornest the fairest knight that 
ever fell for his lady-love. But I will speak 
of him ; ah, and thou shalt hear, my Lady 
Margaret !” 

“I will hear never a word,” said she; and she 
turned her back fairly upon the cavalier. Then 
did he step toward her and grasp her arm, while 
his voice trembled with generous passion. “My 
Lady Margaret de Medina Sidonia, thou shalt 
hear, I swear it, thou shalt hear of this brave 
Bertran. He told me of his love for thee; he 


9° 


GARCILASO 


said thou didst not love him, but he could wait 
for that happiness. Handsome he was, and 
flush with early manhood, and the pride of 
battle. Gallant was he, and when danger drew 
aside like a coy damsel, he wooed it for his 
bride. When unhorsed, he fought afoot, crying 
thy name, with that of our fair queen. And so 
he died, loving thee. Yea, so died gallant 
young Bertran, with thine image filling his soul. 
Yea, this haughty face came to him all softened 
by his love ; this cold and scornful brow was to 
him soft as the feather of a dream.” 

“Well he died, thinking so,” said Margaret, 
almost in a whisper. 

“Margaret, Margaret, I can well remember 
when thy countenance appeared even so to me.” 

“But that,” said she, “was before thou didst 
meet with Petonilla. Go thy way, Signor 
Cavalier, and leave the haughty face and the 
cold and scornful brow of Margaret. Go thy 
way, and come not so soon again. By our 
Lady, sir, but we meet too often.” 

“Now thou art angered,” said Garcilaso, who, 
being a man, could forbear from taking offense. 
“Margaret, I forgive thee thy hard words. I 


MARGARET IS IN A RARE TEMPER 9 1 


know thou wilt be sorry when I am gone for 
what thou hast spoken me.” 

“Nay, by the crucifix!” cried she, hotly; 
for she had a rare temper when there was least 
occasion. 

“Margaret,” said I, seeking words to soften 
her, “dear Margaret, thou art unreasonable; 
thou shouldst govern thyself better. Come, tell 
me that thou hast spoken amiss.” 

“Go to Petonilla, ” said she. Finding her in 
this mood, entirely impervious to reason or 
advice, Garcilaso, without any anger or resent- 
ment, left the tent, and did in truth wander by 
Petonilla’s pavilion. Now, as he drew near, he 
beheld a miserable old hag, clothed in tatters, 
and most unseemly from a scant attention to her 
cleanliness. This wretch stopped at the opening 
of the pavilion, and raising her shrill voice (fit 
for no gentle ears to hear) she cried out, “Bread, 
bread to a poor old woman who hath not a bite 
to eat in the world !” 

I would have stridden forward to drive her 
from the place, but a lady-in-waiting appeared 
at the doorway and said, sharply enough, 
“Excuse us, old woman, for God’s sake!” 


92 


GARCILASO 


With a scowl, the miserable beggar was about to 
pass on, when another voice sounded from the 
pavilion. “ Abide!” cried this voice; it was the 
voice of Petonilla. Then Sefiorita Fontane 
appeared. 

“ Bread,” said the hag, “for I perish.” 

“Thou shalt have bread,” said Petonilla. 
“But why dost lean so heavily upon the stick?” 

“Alas, lady, I am crippled with disease and 
long tramping, and never a soul have I to pro- 
vide for me. And all this day, wherever I have 
gone, I have heard but the words, ‘ Excuse us, 
for God’s sake.’ ” 

“And is it so, poor soul?” said Petonilla, 
coming out of her pavilion ; yea, her dainty feet 
even treading in the dust of the street! “It 
may be,” said she, “that thou wilt find mine 
arm better than the stick.” And thereupon she 
did put her gracious arm about that wretched 
form. 

“For God’s sake,” cried Garcilaso, drawing 
nigh, “do not this thing, my lady, for it ill 
becometh thee. But if thou wouldst dispense 
thy charity, send a wench to take the hag 
within. Let not thine arm, my lady, close 


MARGARET IS IN A RARE TEMPER 93 


about this vile wanderer, for she is but a 
beggar.” 

Petonilla turned and looked upon me, gen- 
tly. “ Charity?” said she. “Charity is not 
the giving of bread, but of love. Come, poor 
old woman, lean upon me.” 

“By my faith,” cried Garcilaso, in great 
heat, “this shall not be, for it were a shame to 
thee, my dear lady ; it were beneath thy 
station.” 

“My station!” she repeated, still without 
anger. “My station is not above the lowest 
child of God. Did not the dear Savior eat 
with publicans and sinners?” 

“Yea; but so do not his representatives, the 
blessed popes, the high cardinals, or even the 
poorest priests.” 

“What!” said she; “is the servant greater 
than the master?” And she took the beggar 
within, and both were lost from my view. I 
went home, both glad and sorry. Glad, for she 
had spoken of the Blessed Savior, therefore I 
knew she was not a Jewess; yet sorry that she 
could so forget her dignity as to touch a ragged 
and dust-begrimed old hag, and speak to 


94 


GARCILASO 


her as to an equal. Such things ought not to 
be. Yet it was a defect on the side of kindness, 
and I knew very well that when she became my 
wife I could coax her to a truer nobility of 
mien. Now it so chanced that a beggar met me 
upon the way, a gaunt old man (an impostor, 
doubtless), and I drove him away with scant 
ceremony, yet cast a coin after him, and left 
him groveling for it in the dust; and I reached 
my tent with a lighter heart. 

“Herbert,” said I to the German (for he was 
always at home), “I desire thee to go to the 
banquet with me which cometh now shortly. 
Shake not thy head, but listen with such mind 
as thou hast.” 

I thought to stir him up, but he only looked 
at me with a slow calmness, and in my heart I 
believe he thought himself the better of us 
twain! “Herbert, there is to be a most fair 
lady at that banquet, and I desire thee to meet 
her.” 

“I know, I know,” said he, hastily; “but I 
wonder thou desirest me to meet her again!” 

“What meanest?” said I, amazed.” 

“Why shouldst thou wish me to meet Peton- 


MARGARET IS IN A RARE TEMPER 95 


ilia?” said the German, with a keen look, such 
as I did not think he could assume. 

“ Thou meet Petonilla?” I cried. “What 
care I an thou meet her a thousand times? 
What is Petonilla to thee? Thy wits are slow 
to-day, Herbert!” 

“Then spur them up a bit,” said he. 

“I wish thee to meet the Lady Margaret,” 
said I. 

“Oh!” remarked Herbert, ungraciously. 

“Herbert, Margaret loveth no man. I would 
thou couldst move her to love, for she is deso- 
late and lonely, and a bit shrewish for lack of a 
lover. And though thou art a German, and 
slow in thy way, why, even so is she peculiar 
and unlike others. Her wit is not so nimble 
but that thou canst catch it easily. Ye would 
be well mated. And as I love her as a sister, 
and thee as a brother (since I saved thy life), I 
would see ye wed. She is fair and of gentle 
blood. At present she is irritable, quick to take 
offense at a shadow, slow to understand another, 
sudden in causeless anger; wherefore I know she 
is ripe for love.” 

“And being ripe,” said Herbert, with proper 


9 6 


GARCILASO 


seriousness, “thou wouldst have me pluck this 
fair fruit?” 

“Even so,” I replied, glad that he did not 
smile. “Wilt share the banquet?” 

“In truth I will share,” said he. 

Now let me pass, with a sweep of my pen, 
over the intervening days, and come at once to 
the day of the duke’s banquet. 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE DUKE’S BANQUET 

It was fifteen days after the Holy Festival of 
Corpus Christi, and eight before the celebration 
in honor of St. John the Baptist, that the duke 
gave his banquet. Garcilaso went that morning 
to celebrate the sacrifice of the Mass; and on 
the same day he confessed to his priest, Father 
Pedro. The cavalier said ten Credos, ten Ave 
Marias, and ten Paternosters, and so felt well 
fitted to meet his Petonilla. He went to the 
banquet accompanied by his German friend, 
Herbert Klein; and these two were followed by 
a glittering train of squires, pages, and bediz- 
ened varlets. Garcilaso wore that day a doublet 
of velvet, most rich and gorgeous, and his long 
robe was set with divers precious gems. About 
his neck he showed a fine lace collar from Flan- 
ders, which he had never donned till that day. 
Margaret, as being of near kin to the duke, 
helped his ladies to receive; and said Garcilaso 
to Herbert: “Is she not right fair? Tell me, 
97 


9 8 


GARCILASO 


Herbert, is there a German lady can vie with 
her?” 

Herbert glanced upon Margaret with a face 
of stone, and then his eyes slipped from her 
features and wandered away and paused. Gar- 
cilaso followed his lead, and found his eyes rest- 
ing upon Petonilla Fontane. And then indeed 
Garcilaso saw no one else. For there was not 
another in that assemblage of knights and ladies 
that might be compared with Petonilla. Her 
dress was not rich, nor her colors gaudy, and 
she wore no golden ornament. But even in 
spite of this lack, her features outshone the 
imagination, so that one could but look upon 
her, and vainly seek to comprehend why she was 
so fair. It was not the liquid fire of her eyes, 
for this had Margaret, and many another fair 
Spaniard. And Petonilla’s lips did not rest in 
half-disdainful curves, such as Garcilaso loved to 
see. There was a simplicity, a gentleness, a 
tenderness about her that in any other would 
have displeased the cavalier. He thought to 
himself, “If she is so wondrous beautiful in her 
simplicity, what will she be when she hath 
learned to dart the glance of scorn, to hold the 


THE DUKE’S BANQUET 


99 


head with haughtiness and stately pride? I love 
to see a maiden’s mouth set in a certain frame 
of superiority, as if the maiden felt not the lack 
of all mankind. But even as Petonilla is, some- 
thing like an innocent child, I love her with a 
love that turns to bite me while I cherish it.” 
Then Garcilaso strode forward, and making 
nothing of the damsels that would have won his 
eye, he paused not till he stood beside his lady- 
love. 

“God give thee a fair day,” said he. 

“And thee another,” answered Petonilla. 

“Nay, not another, but the same,” cried the 
knight; “and let us share it together. Remem- 
ber, at the banquet I am to eat from thy plate.” 

“I remember, Don Garcilaso.” 

“After the banquet,” said he, “a party of us 
are to ride abroad and seek a spot from which 
our queen (without danger to herself) may go to 
view the city of Granada, and look therein. 
Wilt thou accompany me, lady?” 

“If it please thee.” 

“But wilt thou not feel the pleasure, too?” 

“Alas, my lord, pleasure is not for me.” 

“Not for thee?” he cried, in pain; “and 




IOO 


GARCILASO 


wherefore not? Methinks pleasure never found 
so fair a temple in which to rear her altar. I 
would be willing to dissolve the whole world in 
tears that its sunshine might find a rainbow 
in thy heart.” 

“Wouldst thou indeed make the whole 
world sad that I might be merry?” 

“In truth would I,” he returned, “for art 
thou not more to me than all the world?” 

“That I know not,” said Petonilla, with a 
blush. 

“Prove me!” he cried. 

“Some day — some day,” said Petonilla. 
“And if all the world hate me, wilt thou still 
be my friend?” 

“I will still be thy lover; for if all the world 
hate thee, it is a world unworthy of my regard, 
and I shall hate it for hating thee. But prove 
me now. Tell me thy sorrow.” 

“Not now, my lord. Nay, not now. I am 
not brave enough to prove my fear untrue.” 

“Thou fearest me, Petonilla; thou doubtest 
me? Ah, if thou didst know me better. But I 
swear to thee by St. James and the Most 
Blessed Virgin, and by all the saints, that I will 


THE DUKE’S BANQUET 


IOI 


espouse thy cause, and fight for thee, if all the 
world turn knight and defy — ” 

“Nay, good my lord, finish not thine oath, 
for he who sweareth in the dark will not pray in 
the dawn. Let us no more of this matter. But 
tell me who these brave knights and fair ladies 
be, for I am a stranger to most.” 

Now, when I would have" begun to comply, I 
perceived Margaret drooping like an unsunned 
flower, alone; and in another corner sat Herbert 
Klein, heavy and distraught, as though he pined 
to have his forefinger in a book. I excused 
myself from my lady and sought out Herbert. 
“By my troth,” said I, “this is treating me 
unkindly. Seest not the Lady Margaret pining 
for company. Come!” 

“Nay,” said the strange youth; “I have no 
heart for her.” 

“Then take heart,” said I, dragging him 
across the apartment. “Margaret,” said I, 
“this is my good friend Herbert Klein, a noble 
knight, and worthy of thy regard. Treat him 
well, dear lady, for he is homesick,” said I, 
“and yearneth for a friend.” 

Margaret looked at him as if he were a Jew, 


102 


GARCILASO 


and bowed with scorn — for she thought his 
name barbarous. And Herbert faced her as 
if brought before an Inquisitor. I left them 
together, and returned to Petonilla. I had a 
merry time with my lady, talking gayly of those 
about us, touching upon their defects and weak- 
nesses — sure nothing is so entertaining as picking 
flaws in our acquaintances! I knew them all 
just well enough to know in what they came 
amiss. Petonilla said few words, but I knew 
I filled the hour for her with gratification. And 
although the sadness never melted from her face, 
it never ceased to look me gently. I could not 
expect her love for me to spring into perfect 
being, as mine had done for her, and as Minerva 
had sprung in the fable. But methought her 
regard for me was growing. I kept a keen out- 
look for the signals, and while all the time there 
was a most bitter uncertainty about it, yet the 
sweetest hopes mingled with the bitterness. 
Sometimes she sat as if she heard me not, and 
when I smiled, the light did not reflect from her 
lips or eyes. But again she would look at me 
with a strange look, as if she would say, “Can I 
trust thee? Art thou true?” And once she 


THE DUKE’S BANQUET 


103 


blushed brightly at a word of love, and once 
she sighed as I spoke of happiness, and once 
the tears came to her eyes when I spoke of 
home. 

“Petonilla, dear my lady, trust me!” I said, 
abruptly, after one of her mute glances. 

She started, for I had read her thought. 
And then she said, “I must know thee first, 
Don Garcilaso; I must know thee better.” 

Now I looked up, and behold, Herbert and 
Margaret had got them to opposite sides of the 
room again, and were as those who brood over 
troubles. So I bore Petonilla upon my arm to 
Margaret, and I requested her to walk with us; 
and when she rose silently and complied, I 
picked up Herbert on the way. And I deter- 
mined that Herbert and Margaret should get 
well acquainted that day, if Petonilla and I had 
to fence them up together in a corner. Now 
when Herbert joined us, I saw Petonilla look 
into his face with eyes as clear as stars, and as 
unkind as truth; and her face said very plainly, 
“ Thee I cannot trust!” And Petonilla turned 
from him to me, and her eyes said again, “ Can 
I trust thee, Garcilaso?” Then the face of the 


104 


GARCILASO 


German quivered, and it became red ; even his 
neck was crimson. 

“ I observe,” said I, in amazement, * * that 
there is no need here of an introduction.” 

“No need,” said Herbert, not with that 
stolid dullness of tone which distinguished him, 
but as if he had borrowed a Spaniard’s voice. 
For his tones trembled with emotion, and his 
face was moved ; I would never have believed it 
upon hearsay. In very truth, that German had 
a human heart within him, and he could be 
touched by some things! 

“Herbert,” said I, shrewdly, “do ye two” 
(meaning him and Margaret) “go before and we 
two will follow wheresoever ye lead.” He 
seemed right glad to escape the reproachful eyes 
of Petonilla, and he and Margaret went forward. 
We passed outside the tent, and along the 
avenue of flowers which the duke had set forth 
for our disport; and I whispered Petonilla, 
“Why dost thou dislike the German?” 

“I dislike no one,” said she; “but he 
deceived me, therefore I grieve. I trusted him; 
he proved faithless to the trust.” 

“By St. John the Baptist,” said I, “and by 


THE DUKE’S BANQUET 


105 


the Holy Sacrament, I thought if any one could 
be trusted, that one was Herbert Klein!” 
Well, she made no answer, and I made pleasant 
the way for her with conversation, not of poli- 
tics, nor yet of the new learning which had 
spread after the fall of Constantinople; but I 
molded my words in the light and shallow 
mold that pleaseth a woman. Very few words 
said she, so that I told her full many a tale 
without one interruption. Never was there a 
better listener than Petonilla ; I could have 
talked with her forever. How different, thought 
I, is my lady from Margaret! For I never got 
through a tale to Margaret but it was split into 
a dozen places by her quick and nervous excla- 
mations and questions. What times Margaret 
and I had had together! How we used to seek 
to outcry each other, each having that to say 
which would brook no stopping. How often we 
had breathless paused, having said our say, and 
knowing nothing of the other’s words. But 
Petonilla drank in my words as a flower drinks 
in the dew. Her face was downcast, her arms 
not gesturing — in truth, it was hard to tell at 
times if she were listening at all. 


io6 


GARCILASO 


In the mean time, Margaret walked dumbly 
forward with dumb Herbert Klein. The vivac- 
ity she used to breathe in with her very breath 
had vanished. No sudden exclamations, no 
noticing of unusual objects, no quick pointings 
of the hands or shakings of the head, no clear, 
quick laughs. She is changed, thought I ; she 
grieves for some one to love her. Pray heaven 
Herbert may suit! Then, observing how dog- 
gedly Herbert trod the earth, and how he was 
locked up in the case of his own mind, “A 
murrain upon him!" thought I; ‘‘and had I thee 
aside, I would thrust thy head against the wall!" 

The banquet was announced. “Dear Mar- 
garet," said I, “Petonilla hath vouchsafed to 
me the privilege of eating from her plate. I 
pray thee even grant the same favor to my dear 
friend Herbert Klein — whom the saints con- 
found!" I added under my breath. 

“Such favors," said Margaret, “are won by 
deeds — they are not given as a price for words. 
No knight hath ever eaten from my plate, nor 
shall till he prove himself." 

“ ’Tis well," said Herbert, with a bow. “I 
shall dine more at ease off mine own platter." 


THE DUKE’b BANQUET 


107 

There was nothing to be said after that. I 
found myself seated between Petonilla and 
Margaret. Herbert made for to go away, but I 
brought him with a push of my right arm 
around to Margaret’s side (and not without 
some violence, for I was impatient of his dull- 
ness). Now what a feast was there, and how 
that hour lingers in my mind as one of the 
golden hours of Garcilaso de la Vega! As the 
pages broke up the meats and delicate breads 
and placed them upon Petonilla’s plate, my 
hand and hers often touched in seeking the 
morsels. But every time I felt my fingers nestle 
to her own, it was with the same exquisite 
thrill — a thrill to which I never grew used. My 
heart overflowed in happiness, and though 
usually* grave and almost severe, I became 
happy as a boy, and as light of word. So gay 
was I that I sought to share my joy with the 
silent and pale Margaret. 

“Margaret,” said I, “methinks Herbert is 
dull to-day, for he hath not made thee laugh.” 

“This is not my laughing day,” said she. 

“Hast thou days for laughing,” said I. 

“Ay,” said she; “and years for weeping.” 


io8 


GARCILASO 


“By my troth,” cried I, “mar not the feast 
by somber words of melancholy, when thou hast 
no cause to be sad.” 

“Then let me be sad from perverseness,” said 
she. “Wast never glad without a cause?” 

“Not I.” 

“Indeed,” said she, “I think thou hast small 
reason to-day to be merry!” (She knew not 
what she said, I saw that plainly enough, so I 
would not answer her.) But, that I might rouse 
her up a bit, I said: “My Lady Margaret, since 
Herbert may not eat from thy plate, thou canst 
not deny me, seeing that I have often proved 
myself. So I will even pluck me forth this 
tender bit of venison.” 

And I plucked it out of her plate. 

Then up rose Margaret, up sprang she with 
her face in a flame. And, “I would never again 
touch bite or portion from that plate,” said she, 
“though I died of hunger!” 

“Margaret, Margaret, what meanest?” cried 
I, rising beside her. “Thou treatest me not as 
a friend.” 

“Thou art no friend of mine,” cried she, 
“when thou bearest thyself as a lover.” 


THE DUKE’S BANQUET 


109 

“Indeed I meant not so,” I exclaimed. “It 
was but a jest. To eat from thy plate meant 
nothing.” 

“Did it not?” said she, hotly. “Doth it 
mean nothing when thou eatest with Petonilla? 
I pray thee, Sir Herbert,” said she, still glowing 
— and what ailed her I know not, by my soul! — 
“I pray thee take me hence.” And away went 
they, Herbert looking as surprised as Gar- 
cilaso. 

“Then let her go,” said I, resuming my seat. 
“For if I waited till I understood that woman, 
I also should die of hunger! And yet in truth, 
Petonilla, I verily believe all that aileth her is 
that she seeth my love for thee, and it reminds 
her of her lack; for she loveth no one.” 

“Doth she not?” said Petonilla, looking up. 

“No, on my soul,” said I. Petonilla made 
no answer. Now let me not detail all the con- 
versation that took place between me and my 
Lady Fontane. For to do so would be but 
to recount my own tales and narratives of 
daring, since she said so little. The hours 
glided by, and so happy was I, Margaret and 
Herbert slipped from my mind. To be near 


I IO 


GARCILASO 


Petonilla, to study the shape of her head and the 
turn of her features, were happiness enough; 
but to have her drink in all my words with a 
most respectful silence, without one interrup- 
tion, without one boisterous cry — ah, this was 
rapture ! 

And then we rode forth in a great company 
to pitch upon a place whence our dear queen 
could take a close view of Granada. The 
Moors in their heretical turbans crowded the 
battlements and walls, and looked across at us, 
wondering at our purpose; but we heeded them 
not. By me rode Petonilla. If Margaret went, 
I knew not, nor cared. 

On the left of Granada, perched half-way up 
the mountain-side, was the small fortress Zubia. 
This appeared the safest place for the gratifica- 
tion of our queen’s desire. It had formerly 
been snatched from the Moors, and our cannon 
had torn fearful rents in the wall and brought 
down the massive tower. We dismounted and 
wandered about the deserted streets, Petonilla 
leaning on my arm. We approached the tower, 
and scrambling up a prostrate wall, her hand in 
mine, we perched upon a great stone that had 


THE DUKE’S BANQUET 


1 1 1 


fallen from on high. Already grass had begun 
to grow between the crevices of the wall. 
Knights and ladies of our party went every- 
where, calling, laughing, and making merry. 
From where I sat, we two (it was as if we were 
alone in the world) could look down into 
Granada, and admire its wondrous architecture, 
and point out moving forms. 

Suddenly Petonilla turned to me, and said, 
“My lord, thou hast heard of the Vaudois?” 

“The Vaudois?” I repeated, unable to bring 
my mind so suddenly from the lovely scene to 
a subject so despised. 

“Yea,” said she, thinking I did not under- 
stand. “The Vaudois of Piedmont, from whom 
sprang the Albigenses and the Waldenses and 
many other sects.” 

“In truth, I know of them,” I answered, 
“and how the blessed Pope ordered a crusade 
against them not long ago.” 

She looked at me thoughtfully. “Dost thou 
know, my lord, the doctrine of the Vaudois?” 

“Yea, I know right well,” said I. “I will 
tell it thee, my lady. They call themselves 
nothing but Christians. They claim that since 


1 12 


GARCILASO 


the time of our Blessed Savior they have lived 
in the valleys of Piedmont, true to the doctrines 
of the Apostles. They make bold to use the 
Bible freely, and they have no priests. They 
do not honor the blessed Pope. They are not 
Catholics. They are heretics. Pray heaven,” 
said I, “that a day not long distant may see 
them exterminated!” 

“And yet,” said she, “they are good and 
harmless people; for, my lord, I have known 
some of them.” 

“They are good, I grant, morally good; but 
that makes them so much the more dangerous. 
Call them not harmless! For the purity of their 
lives causes weak-minded ones to be blind to 
their wicked errors of doctrine. Were they bad 
and bloody people, they would not prove a snare 
and a deadly attraction.” 

“Good my lord,” said she, “they hold all 
things in common ; when one is poor, all divide 
with him; when one is ill, many offer themselves 
as free and tender nurses. They love each other 
— the lord sits with his varlet, and together they 
read the Word of God.” 

“Yea,” said I; “and there is no holy father 


THE DUKE’S BANQUET 1 13 

present to tell them what that. Word means. 
For let me tell thee, my lady, if the priests did 
not tell us the meaning of the Word, who would 
understand it aright? Let me tell thee, that 
often it meaneth the very opposite of what it 
saith ! How can mere mortal minds read these 
opposites in what appeareth quaint and frank 
openness of speech? But let us not spoil our 
heavenly day,” said I, “by marring it with 
words about these fanatics and heretics. Pray 
heaven every one of them may be put to the 
sword; not because I hate them, poor souls, but 
because how else can their false teachings be put 
out of the world?” And then I changed the 
subject, and we were right happy. For I told 
her brave deeds and wise sayings, and the day 
passed away as we sat among the ruins. With 
her dear form so near me, and with the light 
breeze ever playing with her locks, and with her 
sweet face so grave, so gentle, so attentive, I 
might have lingered there unmindful of the late 
hour, had we not been called. The party was 
already ahorse. We hurried to the ground (her 
hand in mine — ah, precious treasure), and we 
fared after them back to the city of silk. 


GARCILASO 


114 


The day was over^ah, that day! I would 
I could live it again with just the same thoughts 
and heart-beats — I would not be robbed of a 
single moment! I would invite all the pain of 
love for one of those sweet moments, when I 
thought love was life and life was love, and 
Petonilla was all in all, and the Blessed Virgin 
for us twain! 

When I bade her good night, I kissed her 
cheek (as a true knight may), and it was cold 
and calm. Yet the blush spread over it, and she 
started back, as if unused to our gentle custom. 
I praised heaven for Petonilla’s blushes; they 
were all my hopes had to feed upon. Now as I 
walked my horse slowly toward my tent, trying 
to remember how her voice had sounded, I was 
overtaken by a messenger. Instantly my heart 
bounded as I thought Petonilla had sent for 
me; but the message was from Margaret. She 
would speak to me a moment. So to her tent I 
rode, my mind still in a daze over my day’s 
happiness. She met me at the door, dressed all 
in white, save for a golden girdle. Her face was 
wan, and her eyes heavy. 

“Garcias,” said she, “forgive me.” 


THE DUKE’S BANQUET 


"5 


I looked at her in amazement. “ Forgive 
thee, my friend? Why, what have I to for- 
give?” 

“My treatment of thee at the banquet,” said 
she, in a voice that was almost a whisper. 

“The banquet?” said I. “Thy treatment?” 
And then of a sudden I remembered the scene 
at the table, and how she had left my side. 
“Oh! In truth,” said I, kindly, “it had escaped 
my mind.” 

“I am glad,” said she, with a certain proud 
gentleness, “that thy mind hath been filled with 
brighter things than the image of Margaret. 
But, Garcias, I did not know; and I thought 
it might be that I had given thee pain.” 

“No, by my troth,” I cried, eagerly. “I 
cared not in the least, dear sister. It was 
nothing!” 

“That was all, Garcias,” she said, quietly. 
“Forgive me that I troubled thee.” 

“Margaret,” said I, “mention it not. I 
have had a glorious day, my lady. Ah, Mar- 
garet, Petonilla is indeed the gem of Andalusia! 
But I hope thou hast entreated Herbert kindly.” 

“It is late now, Garcias,” said she, still right 


GARCILASO 


ii 6 

softly. “God send thee a good night, my 
brother/’ And she passed within. 

Now when I drew near my tent I was 
amazed to find a great turmoil going forward. 
Horses were being harnessed, boxes were issuing 
from the tent. The servants were those of 
Herbert Klein, and that peculiar German was 
himself assisting them. 

“In the name of St. James,’’ said I, “what 
meaneth this?’’ 

“I am going to leave the country,’’ said 
Herbert Klein; “it is I who tell thee so!’’ 

“Leave what country?’’ I cried. 

“This Spain,’’ said he. 

“And wherefore, my friend?’’ 

“Reason enough,” said he, slowly. “But let 
us to our room. There I will explain.” 


CHAPTER IX 

HERBERT THINKS HE IS IN LOVE 

When Herbert Klein and Garcilaso were 
alone in the tent, the Lord of Bartras turned 
severely upon his German friend. “How now, 
Herbert? Why dost thou make for to leave 
Spain without one word to me?” 

“Indeed,” said Herbert, “I had a word to 
speak to thee before my departure.” 

“And what word?” said the cavalier. 

“Farewell,” said the other, coldly. 

“Thou shalt never leave this land,” cried 
Garcilaso, “until thou hast given cause for such 
a step.” 

“Dost thou command?” cried Herbert, look- 
ing at me as if he were not afraid. 

“Nay; but as I saved thy life, I request thy 
reasons.” 

“So be it,” said he; “sit we down, and the 
reason thou shalt have. For it is this, that I 
love Petonilla. ” 

I was so greatly astonished that I knew not 
“7 


i8 


GARCILASO 


what to say. I stared upon him, thinking he 
had gone mad. “What words are these?” 
cried I. 

“I love Petonilla, ” said he, tenaciously; 
“and I will leave Spain. It is I who tell thee 
so.” 

“But Margaret,” I exclaimed. “Is she not 
fair?” 

He burst forth with, “May Margaret be — ” 

“Hold!” I interrupted. “Say not words for 
which I must have thy life.” 

He cried out, still, methought, in a fine pas- 
sion, “May Margaret be eternally — ” 

“Herbert, no more; say it not!” cried I, 
drawing my blade. Then of a sudden he grew 
calm and cold. “I was wrong,” he said, 
simply; “but by heaven I have been choked 
with Margaret this day, so forcibly was she 
thrust down my throat. The fault is thine, 
Laso. Thou hast harassed us both nigh unto 
death. But it is past. It will not happen 
again. ” 

“If thou canst not appreciate Margaret,” 
cried I, “one of the purest and fairest daughters 
of Castile, a Guzman and a queen uncrowned, 


HERBERT THINKS HE IS IN LOVE 119 


thou dull and insensate German, then go thy 
way.” 

“I go my way,” he retorted; “and as for 
Margaret, love her thyself, an thou wilt!” 

“What mean these words?” I cried, starting 
up in a fury. “Dost tell the lover of Petonilla 
to love another?” 

“/ am a lover of Petonilla,” said he, “and 
thou tellest me to love elsewhere.” 

“Thou her lover!” cried I. “Thou her 
lover! And thy tone as cold as a mountain 
stream, thine eyes calm and content. Thou 
knowest not love. Love is not a thing to lie 
lightly upon the stomach.” 

“I love Petonilla,” said he, quietly. 

“Then fight for her,” cried I. “Come, 
begin !” 

“I shall not fight thee for Petonilla, though 
I love her,” said he, without emotion. 

“Thou wilt not fight? And yet, poor fool, 
thou babblest of love! Thou wilt not fight for 
Petonilla? Then give her not one thought, for 
thou hast not a thought in thy cowardly mind 
that is worthy to be cast before her feet. But 
as for Garcilaso de la Vega” (thus I spoke), 


120 


GARCILASO 


“he will fight for Petonilla, yea, he will take her 
part against the world. No matter what cham- 
pion of calumny draws the sword, he will meet 
that enemy. He cares not if all Spain should 
point the finger of scorn at Petonilla; he would 
walk by her side through the most frequented 
streets of Seville. He would share disgrace and 
shame for her sake, even he, the haughty Lord 
of Bartras! And this is my love. Yet thou, 
who claimest a like affection, darest not for her 
sake to meet me with thy sword.” I turned 
upon my heel and strode across the room. 
When I faced about, he sat as unmoved as a 
statue. 

“When I was a stranger to Spain,” said he, 
“I went first to Seville, and put up at the home 
of a merchant named Americus Vespucius. I 
had no other reason for being here but to amuse 
myself by foreign sights, since no country,” said 
he, “is the equal of Germany in learning and 
freedom of thought. For in Spain the priest 
telleth you what to think, and you think it ; not 
so is it in my land. Well, I had not been very 
long with Vespucius when an old Jew came 
there for to sell him costly merchandise.” 


HERBERT THINKS HE IS IN LOVE 12 


“No more of this,” cried I, impatiently. “I 
seek a quarrel with thee, and not a story of low- 
born varlets and heretics. Fight with me, or 
hold thy peace.” 

“The Jew’s name was Korah,” said Herbert, 
as if he had not been interrupted. 

“Ah!” I exclaimed. “Continue.” 

“It is what I set out to do,” said Herbert, 
seriously. “Now Korah had with him a maiden, 
a certain Italian, whose name was Petonilla. 
They did not appear to be related, for I soon 
learned that she was no Jewess. Neither were 
they married. As Korah was a strict bargainer 
and could scarce come to his price, and as he 
had many things to sell, he and Petonilla abode 
in the merchant’s home. Americus, who is a 
Florentine, made little of Korah being a Jew, 
since he was full of bargains. But as there were 
spies from the Inquisition in the city, we kept 
him close, and I helped to conceal him, both 
from the adventure of the thing and because I 
wished to make Petonilla glad. In this way 
Petonilla and I were thrown much together, and 
we had pleasant hours. Now it appeared that 
Petonilla was related to an ancient house of 


22 


GARCILASO 


Spain, and she was waiting for some hidalgos to 
come for her and carry her to the queen, to be 
a maid of honor. So when they came she took 
me aside, and she made me promise that no evil 
should befall the old Jew, her friend. I 
promised to protect him as I could. Not long 
after the sunshine had vanished from the home 
of Americus with the departure of Petonilla, the 
spies lighted upon our place. I hid Korah in 
my baggage, and stoutly maintained that he was 
not there. They knew better, however; and 
finding I was obdurate, they were about to drag 
me away to the Inquisition in lieu of the Jew, 
when a stranger knight rode up, and unearthed 
the poor old man.” 

“Yea,” said I, “and I did save thy life.” 

“It is true,” replied the German; “and 
therefore I will not fight with thee. Now when 
Petonilla learned of Korah’s capture, she was 
told that I gave him up, for this is the story 
thou didst spread to save my life. And she 
believeth that I proved false; and in her heart 
she holdeth me in contempt. And though I 
could disabuse her mind, and show her that I 
did what I could, and that I was true to her and 


HERBERT THINKS HE IS IN LOVE 


2 3 


to my love, I could only do so by telling her 
that it was thou , thou who didst deliver up her 
friend to torture and death. Therefore my lips 
are sealed. But I can bear it no more, for my 
heart is breaking. And I will go away from 
thee and from Petonilla, and God send you 
happiness.” 

Whereupon I knew not what to say. But I 
put up my sword, seeing there would be no use 
for that, at all events. At last I spoke: 
“ Herbert, thou hast a noble heart, though no 
Spaniard, for a Spaniard would not think or do 
as thou. But believe me, my friend, thou dost 
not love Petonilla. I know not if thy heart is a 
heart that can feel love for any woman. But I 
know from thy quietness and coldness that thou 
dost not love at present. I swear this is but a 
German friendship for a fair maid. ’Twill pass.” 

“Thinkest thou ’twill pass?” said he, simply. 

“Ay, by the saints and by the Sacrament! 
Thou hast but a whim in thy head, and thy 
head thinketh it to be love. Why, Herbert, 
couldst thou sit unmoved and read a book were 
a live coal thrust into thy bosom? Wouldst not 
flinch and sigh and mightily disport thyself? 


2 4 


GARCILASO 


Even so is love a live coal thrust into the soul, 
and kept glowing by the sighs of passion, and 
never man had peace in such a state.” 

“Dost feel this live coal, Garcilaso?” 

“Yea; it plagueth me daily. I cannot sit * 
still long at a time; I cannot walk at a steady 
pace. I look up, and hear whispers, and dream 
poems that will not be writ down. Every 
woman remindeth me of Petonilla, and every 
man of myself. There seems to be nobody but 
us two living under the sun.” 

“Surely thou lovest her,” said he. 

“Thou hast said — ah, St. James!” 

“And were I to tell her,” said Herbert, 
“that it was thou who gavest Korah o'ver to the 
rack, she would look upon thee never again. 
But she would find that she had done me 
wrong; and she would be right sorry, for she 
did like me once, and we talked to each other 
of our youth. Ah, Garcilaso, we told each other 
about our homes in distant lands, and about our 
mothers. Now if I told her the truth, it 
might be that she would care for me with love. 
And when I think of this, a devil whispers me, 
and my heart burns; but I remember what I owe 


HERBERT THINKS HE IS IN LOVE 125 


thee, and I fight with myself. But for God’s 
sake, Garcilaso, entreat me not to abide in this 
land, for I know not what I might do, being 
driven quite to despair.” 

It sounded oddly enough, his speaking of 
despair in that quiet voice; I could not believe 
but they were mere words, borrowed from a new 
romance, as if he thought himself the Cid. 
What knew he of the intense passion to which 
I was a prey? But to humor him, and at the 
same time to show him that I respected his 
generosity, I made answer: 

“ Herbert Klein, dear friend, I pray thee 
abide only until the tournament. It is but a 
short time ; and if by then thou still lovest 
Petonilla — ” 

“Ah,” said he, “belike I shall change in a 
week !” 

“Why*hatwas even my thought,” I cried, 
with pleasure that he saw so clearly. “I say, if 
by the time of the tournament thou still 
desirest to depart, I shall not say thee nay. 
But I wish thee to remain till then, for I grieve 
to think of thee in thy barbarous country, and 
me here alone. Besides the which, I wish thee 


126 


GARCILASO 


to see me meet Ponce de Leon, and thrust him 
through. Thou knowest we are to meet; for 
my Lord Captain Hernando Pulgar will either 
bring me a letter writ by Petonilla confessing 
herself a Jewess or worse, or Ponce and I will 
have a bloody tilt. Thou knowest Petonilla is 
no Jewess; worse she cannot be. Therefore 
the encounter shall assuredly take place. ’ * 

For a long time he was silent, thinking over 
my request. At last he said, “I will remain 
until then, Laso, upon one condition; that thou 
dost not seek to wed me to Margaret against my 
will and hers.” 

Now that had indeed been my project, so I 
was a bit confused. But presently I made the 
promise, trusting to events to bring them 
together according to my wishes. 


CHAPTER X 

CROWNED BY A KISS 


If thou wouldst win a woman’s heart, let her 
see thee at least once every day. It is not ne- 
cessary that she hold converse with thee so often ; 
indeed it is better not, lest thou weary her, or 
fail to strike a note in harmony with her mood 
(for a woman is swayed by her moods as a man 
is moved by reason and logic). Every day 
following the banquet I so contrived that 
Petonilla saw me and returned my salutation. 
Sometimes we chatted merrily — or at least I spoke 
with lightness — and she listened like a true lady; 
but oftener it was but a glance, a smile, an 
obeisance. Thus I knew she could not forget 
me; I was content. As for Herbert Klein, he 
sought pleasure in his books, and if I am not 
mistaken, betook him to his Bible more than 
once, which ought not to be. And as for 
Margaret, I almost forgot her existence. 

The day came on which our queen rode forth 
to take a closer view of Granada. That there 
127 


128 


GARCILASO 


might not be a risk from attack, she was 
attended by a powerful and gorgeous retinue. 
We went in this fashion: first were the 
heavily armed legions of cavalry; then came 
the king and queen with the prince and princess 
(alas! poor lady, soon was her unhappy marriage 
to take place), and the ladies of the court, 
among whom was the glorious Petonilla. These 
high-born nobles were surrounded by the royal 
guard, in which rode Garcilaso, nowise inferior 
to his companions-at-arms in richness of dress 
and haughtiness of mien. Behind us rode a 
powerful rear-guard, composed of many a brave 
cavalier and a great number of infantry. The 
Moors from their battlements looked across the 
Vega, perhaps thinking we were bent upon 
attack. But their terror must have changed to 
amazement when they saw us wend across the 
Vega, in our sumptuous attire, in a diagonal 
course, and come at last to the little town of 
Zubia. As the royal guard rode with their 
precious charge into the town, the Marquis of 
Vilena, the Count Urena, and the puissant Don 
Alonzo de Aguilar led their battalions above 
Zubia for a protection. At the same time the 


CROWNED BY A KISS 


129 


Marquis of Cadiz, the Count de Tendilla, the 
Count de Cabra, and Don Alonzo Fernandez 
led their troops below the town. Thus on both 
sides their Catholic majesties were defended by 
living walls of steel and iron. So the ladies 
dismounted, and it was the proud pleasure of 
Garcilaso to assist Senorita Petonilla Fontane, and 
to walk beside her as she followed her lady, the 
queen. And though all conversation was barred, 
seeing they were so close to royalty, yet his eyes 
were feasted with Petonilla’ s shy and innocent 
beauty, and she saw him whenever she raised 
her little head. Never had Garcilaso been so 
happy. The sight of arms, the sound of martial 
music, the gleam of banners and pendants, of 
silks and gold, the presence of the gracious 
queen and polished king, and by his side the 
lady of his love — ah, well, it was enough. 

I envy no man his happiness. It comes to 
every one, at some time in his life, to be happy 
with all the faculties he hath for happiness. 
And after that, he hath his memories. Our 
gracious queen looked from the ruined tower 
down upon Granada, the last stronghold of the 
miserable Moors. She and King Ferdinand 


130 


GARCILASO 


talked of the time when they would enter those 
walls (since it was but a matter of time when the 
barbarians must be starved into surrender), and 
they planned Christian chapels and cathedrals 
where heretical minarets now flouted the skies. 

As we looked, and pleased ourselves with 
visions of these infidels sold by the thousands 
into slavery, or heaped up in bloody piles, the 
gates of the city were thrown open, and a great 
company of the enemy rode down toward our 
little army. 

“ Where is Don Pulgar, captain of the 
guard?” cried our king, quickly. 

“May it please thee, sire,” said I, with a low 
obeisance, “he lieth abed, for he is wounded; 
and in his place I am at the head of the guard.” 

“Then ride,” cried he, “ride at once to my 
nobles and forbid them from accepting any 
challenge or engaging in any combat this day ; 
for this day of sight-seeing must not be 
changed into a day of battle.” And so saying, 
he made a polished bow to his wife, and to her 
ladies. 

I climbed down from the ruins, leaped upon 
my steed, and thundered away from Zubia. 


CROWNED BY A KISS 131 

Our men were preparing for battle, for the 
Moors poured forth with astonishing audacity. 
The squadron of Muza, composed of many 
brave Moorish cavaliers, was followed by 
numerous cavalry, and last of all came artillery. 
They drew up opposite our men, and their 
arrows hurtled among our ranks. I spurred up 
to the Marquis of Cadiz, and, “Forbear,” cried 
I, “forbear, in the king’s name!” And I 
detailed to him the commands of Ferdinand the 
Catholic. 

“By my troth,” said the marquis, “I was 
never sorrier to see thee, Garcilaso, for thy news 
is bitter!” But he dared not make fight. And 
as the Moors taunted us and dared us forth, our 
men showed restive and sullen. Then the dusky 
knights, seeing that we would not forward, 
spurred their chargers and wheeled before us, 
calling for duels. “Come forth, come forth, 
Count de Tendilla,” cried one, “and meet me 
between both armies!” The count’s face 
became blood-red, and his teeth moved up and 
down as if he had food between them, so 
wrought up was he; but he budged not. 

“Ah, thou Marquis of Cadiz,” yelled 


3 2 


GARCILASO 


another, “if thou art too old and sickly for the 
fray, send us thy kinsman, the boy Ponce de 
Leon, and we will match him with our weakest 
knight.” 

“By heaven!” thundered Ponce de Leon, “if 
I am a boy, thou art an unweaned suckling.” 

“Patience, my lord,” I said (for I chanced to 
be beside him); “I will give thee all thou canst 
hold at our tournament!” He turned upon 
me and laughed with disdain. 

“A man full of scorn to failure is born,” I 
cried, hotly. Now, seeing conditions in this 
nervous tension, he could not return to his 
guard. The very air quivered with suspense. 
Although our men sat like stone and bore 
silently, for the most part, the bravado of the 
detestable heretics, it was as much as they could 
bear, and I should not have been astonished had 
they all as by a single impulse dashed forward 
in battle under the very eyes of our sovereigns. 
And in truth I shared their fury, and the sight 
of the wretches as they rode up close to us 
waving their scimiters, made my blood boil with 
passion. 

The captain of the Muza squadron, in par- 


CROWNED BY A KISS 


33 


ticular, was most insolent. Leaving his com- 
pany, he came nigh, caracoling upon his jennet, 
and he cried: 

“Where is the valor of Old Castile? Where 
is the brave blood of Spain? Weakened and 
contaminated by marriage with effeminate 
nations, and by rest and luxury! Time was 
when ye met us like cavaliers, but now ye fight 
with hunger and thirst for your weapons. Ye 
cannot take our city from us, and ye would 
starve us — starve us like dogs! Ah, cowards, 
unbelievers, villains — ” But let not my pen 
record his impious and wicked words. My hand 
leaped to my scabbard, but the memory of the 
king’s commands chilled me like a sudden 
draught. 

Now of a sudden I saw a Moorish cavalier 
issue from the walls of Granada, and he was 
attended by a throng of old men and women 
laughing with derision. The cause of their 
merriment I could not fathom, for I knew the 
knight would not bear to be laughed at ; for he 
was the giant Yarfe. When I saw him, I 
remembered how he had defied our sainted 
Isabella by casting his lance, with foul words 


34 


GARCILASO 


tied thereto, against her pavilion ; how he had 
sought to abduct the pure and dear Petonilla; 
and how he had caused Bertran de Cerda’s death 
by refusing the offer of ransom. And if a man 
could be killed by hate, Yarfe would have fallen 
that second, as I stared upon him with blazing 
eyes. As he drew near, I beheld that which 
chilled the blood in my veins, and then caused 
my breath to die away from anger. My com- 
panions saw it, and a groan of indignation 
escaped them, and a wild lament that the king 
had forbidden a fray. How shall I describe the 
cause of this horror that came upon us? Would 
that I had the gift of the author of the Cid that 
I could properly depict that scene! Yarfe bore 
with him that tablet, containing the words Ave 
Maria, which Pulgar had nailed upon the door 
of the heathenish mosque. Yea, he did bear 
that tablet with that sacred legend upon it in 
great letters. But how, think ye, he bore it? 
Tied unto his horse’s tail! Yea, it was even so. 
As his great steed reared and plunged, that tablet 
(tied unto his tail) was cast this way and that, 
so all could discern the words. 

As soon as I could draw breath, as soon as I 


CROWNED BY A KISS 


*35 


knew full well what I saw, and how that this 
insult to our Blessed Lady was cast into our 
teeth, and so much the more aggravated in that 
it was tied unto the horse’s tail, I put spurs to 
my steed and dashed toward Zubia. Having 
arrived there almost in the space that the breath 
left my body and came again, I flung the bridle 
to a varlet, and heavily armed as I was, I leaped 
up the ruined tower as if upon wings. Bursting 
through the astonished courtiers, passing the 
highest knights and the most saintly bishops, I 
fell upon my knees before my queen. I know 
not the words that escaped my tortured heart. 
Only I know I told her how that dangling 
tablet, which they could plainly espy, did bear 
upon it Ave Maria. I implored her to allow 
me to avenge this insult to our Most Blessed 
Virgin, Mother of God. At last she yielded, 
for dear to her heart was our sacred religion; 
and though Ferdinand, who was colder and 
more prudent, would not have yielded, she did 
put her hand upon my head as I knelt there, 
and she cried, “Go, Don Garcilaso; fight for our 
Lady and for thy queen, and for thy lady-love.’’ 
I sprang up and kissed her hand, and darted one 


136 


GARCILASO 


glance toward Petonilla, and so away like the 
wind. 

Now Yarfe had been riding up and down with 
taunts and cries of “Fight me, Count de Cabra!” 
“Fight me, my Lord Gonsalvo!” till it was 
scarce to be borne. But suddenly I did dash 
toward him with a cry of defiance; and, “I will 
fight thee, for glory of our queen, the honor of 
the Blessed Virgin, and for Petonilla!” cried I. 

“How is this?” roared out my Lord Ponce 
de Leon. “It was thou , Garcilaso, who didst 
forbid us in the name of the king.” 

“The queen consents,” I answered, 
haughtily. “Long live our Lady of Castile!” 

Yarfe knew me at once, and he prepared to 
meet me with all his strength, for well he knew 
I could do right well. He was much more 
heavily armed than I. His buckler was of enor- 
mous size, his lance was such as I could scarce 
have wielded, so heavy was it, yet in his giant 
arm it seemed light enough. His visor was solid 
iron, save for the two holes through which his 
eyes looked. He bore his famous Damascus 
sword, which had dispatched full many a good 
Christian, and at his waist hung a dagger glitter- 


CROWNED BY A KISS 


l 37 


ing with gems — a dagger made in Fez. My 
lance, though lighter, was of most excellent 
temper. My buckler was of Flanders, and my 
good helmet was decorated by four sable plumes 
that nodded in the sunlight and added beauty to 
my grim attire. 

We prepared to charge, holding our lances in 
mailed hands. As he thundered toward me, I 
remembered how once before we had thus 
opposed each other, but how his horse had 
stumbled before we met. And, “Pray heaven 
his horse may stumble again!” thought I, for 
the vastness of his size and the spareness of my 
own dimensions did appeal to me forcibly. And 
for a second I thought to elude the onset, but as 
it chanced the tablet fastened unto his horse’s 
tail was kicked high in the air, and seeing it, 
fury caught prudence by the throat. In an 
instant my lance-point had struck him fair in the 
breast, and his ponderous lance had in like man- 
ner found me. The earth seemed to reel under 
me as that tremendous blow smote upon my 
armor. Both our lances were splintered, and 
the keen fragments whistled about our ears. I 
fell back in my saddle, and my horse wheeled 


138 


GARCILASO 


aside and started to run away. I heard a groan 
break from our men. And even Ponce de Leon, 
though my sworn foe, shouted, “God with thee, 
Garcilaso!” Then, I know not how, I found 
my seat again, and brought my horse about, and 
though my breath was driven from me, I drew 
my sword. And just in time, for Yarfe, with 
his Damascus blade, was making straight at me. 
“St. James!” I whispered, and I eluded his 
thrust. My breath came again, and we had a 
merry time, for I was by far the nimbler, and 
while I dared not meet him equally, I could dart 
aside and then at him. But even so I was grow- 
ing wofully weary, and the blood began to 
stream from us both. 

Now, as he made a most cruel pass at me, I 
jerked my horse away, and his sword found 
nothing but the air, through the which it passed, 
for it escaped his hand and fell to earth. At 
that his fury was terrible, and he came beside 
me and threw his crushing arm about my body 
and we wrestled with all our might. So down 
from the horses fell we both, and I was under- 
neath. Yarfe then started up quick as the 
stroke of a Christian, and fell with one knee 


CROWNED BY A KISS 


39 


upon my breast. Seizing his dagger, he tore it 
from his girdle and held it above my throat, 
which lay bare to his stroke. “Allah! Allah!” 
cried he; “Allah Akbar, and long live Boabdil, 
King of Granada!” And the Christian army and 
the Moorish soldiers stood as if turned to stone. 

Now it seemed to Garcilaso that his last 
moment had come, with that knee pressing upon 
his breast, and with his left arm doubled up 
under him, so that he could not move his body. 
In his right hand he held his good sword, and 
he thought, “If it were a dagger!” Now look- 
ing up, and disdaining to meet the ferocious 
eyes of Yarfe the Moor, he cried out, “Peton- 
illa!” and turned his eyes toward Zubia. And 
there upon the summit of the tower he espied 
his dear queen and many a companion of his 
youth, and best of all, Petonilla. Then it did 
seem (all this took place as in a flash, quick as 
the stroke of a Christian), it did seem that new 
hope stole through the veins of Garcilaso. And 
better than hope, a thought came to him. He 
seized the sword in the middle of the naked 
blade, and having thus shortened it so that it 
could do his purpose, he thrust it upward as it 


140 


GARCILASO 


had been a dagger. And thus in an instant, 
piercing the heart of his enemy, Garcilaso put 
out the light of Yarfe the Moor. 

Then there arose a shout from the Christians 
and a groan from the Moors that seemed to 
shake the earth. And from the summit of the 
tower in Zubia waved many a scarf and handker- 
chief, and even the queen waved her pleasure, 
and Petonilla smiled and did the knight honor. 
My squire dashed forward, and having despoiled 
Yarfe, I gave him the massive armor to bear 
back to my tent. But I tore that sacred tablet 
with its Ave Maria, I tore it from the tail 
of the Arab steed ; and setting it upon the 
point of my good sword, I rode back to my line, 
holding it aloft. Shout after shout rose from 
our ranks. “Garcilaso!” they cried; “Gar- 
cilaso!” And to-day, as I write these words, I, 
an old man and full of honors, that shout rings 
in my ears and makes my heart thrill. Many a 
hand sought mine; and Ponce de Leon, riding 
to my side, cried, “Garcias, we shall fight at the 
tournament, but now let me kiss thee for this 
deed!” And he kissed me upon the cheek. 
Then on I went to Zubia, and placed the tablet 


CROWNED BY A KISS 


Hi 


in the hands of our queen. And going forward to 
Petonilla, I fell upon one knee, and said, faintly, 
for I had lost much blood, “My lady, crown me, 
for I am thy knight, and I have done well.” 

“Wherewith shall I crown thee?” said she, 
looking down upon me with eyes of liking. 

“Crown me with a kiss,” I said. 

But she drew back, and her face was pale. 

“Wilt thou not crown him?” said the queen, 
who stood near — and indeed all looked upon me, 
and would have drawn near had there been room. 

“Alas!” said Petonilla. “Do not ask such 
a thing, my lord. And let not the queen be 
displeased that I cannot obey.” 

“/will crown thee,” said the queen; and 
she brushed Petonilla aside and kissed me upon 
the forehead. It was a gracious deed, and this 
favor I have never wearied of telling to others. 
To this day my heart burns when I remember 
that the great and good Queen Isabella did con- 
descend to show me such honor. And yet, by 
my troth, I would rather at that time have felt 
the hand of Petonilla upon my hair than the 
queen’s kiss upon my brow. Well, I had asked 
too much of a simple and modest maiden. 


142 


GARCILASO 


Now after that all things became dim to me, 
for I fainted away. The noise of battle was in 
the air, for after Yarfe’s downfall the two sides 
went at it without a word of leave or warning. 
When I recovered, my armor had been taken 
from me, and I lay with my head upon Mar- 
garet’s knee. All on the tower were watching 
the progress of the battle and offering up prayers 
for our victory, to the Virgin and to divers 
saints — all but Margaret and me. I thought it 
strange that after so glorious a day it should end 
thus, with Margaret instead of Petonilla. My 
heart ached a little that it was sd. But I would 
not show my disappointment, so I smiled and 
hid my thought. My eyes wandered toward the 
distant form of Petonilla, as that lady leaned 
over the battlements, watching the fray. Would 
she not be as content sitting by my side, thought 
I ? And, oh, what a difference it would make 
to Garcilaso! And as for Margaret, doubtless 
she would rather be viewing the conflict than 
staying with me. 

“Dear friend,” said I, “let me not keep thee 
from viewing the sport.” 

She rose silently and joined the queen, 


CROWNED BY A KISS 


43 


while my varlets came to attend me; but Peton- 
illa did not once turn her head. Our battle-cry 
came from below, ever fiercer, ever bolder, 
“Santiago! Santiago !” And one of my men 
came to tell me that the Moors were fleeing. 
Then it seemed that this victory made the world 
sadder to me in some wise, I know not how, as 
if all the world were happy but me. For though 
I had been given honors such as few knights 
ever won in a day, I would have given them 
every one away for Petonilla’s kiss. 

Now let me pass at once to the day of the 
tournament, making nothing of the intervening 
days. Ay, let me come to the tournament, 
when my whole life changed in a manner wild 
and marvelous. 


CHAPTER XI 

petonilla’s colors 

Just behind the city of silk was a broad and 
rolling meadow, and this had been inclosed by 
barriers, about which colored cloths were 
entwined. Here the knights were to enter the 
lists. Along one side a gallery had been erected 
for the spectators. Heralds had proclaimed the 
tournament throughout the kingdom of Spain; 
and although each weapon was to be blunted or 
edged with wood, so that in the nature of 
things the thrilling excitement of former jousts, 
was wanting, still a great crowd began to gather 
at an early hour. The day after that on which 
our queen viewed Granada from the near village 
of Zubia (which was the day that saw me lay low 
Yarfe the Moor), our gracious lady had been in 
Seville, holding a court of justice. She was 
expected with her ladies on this day, and accord- 
ing to the programme, the king was to meet her, 
and escort her to the royal seat in the gallery. 

Therefore King Ferdinand rode forth, accom- 


H4 


PETONILLA’S COLORS 


H5 


panied by his royal guard, of which I was still 
the head, since Pulgar, though able to walk, did 
not feel equal to the fatigues of the day. I was 
impatient to see my Petonilla once more, for she 
had been away with the good queen; and as we 
rode along, my heart danced with the sunlight, 
and throbbed with the thought that my eyes 
would soon behold her gentle face. In the 
days of her absence, my love for her had grown, 
till life became a long, sweet pain. The king 
wore a vest of crimson cloth and short breeches 
of yellow satin. He bore a Moorish scimiter, 
a loose cassock of brocade, and a velvet hat with 
three great plumes. Mounted he was upon a 
powerful chestnut horse whose trappings were of 
silver and gold. 

As for Garcilaso, he was attired in the fashion 
of the English earl whom he had greatly 
admired in former days — I speak of the English- 
man who uttered that marvelous witticism in 
regard to his teeth, which you will find in any 
history of those days, and over which I have 
laughed (who seldom laugh) a hundred times. 
Now the horse of Garcilaso, like unto the king’s, 
was a superb chestnut jennet. His trappings 


146 


GARCILASO 


were azure silk, which swept the ground as he 
proudly stepped to the music of the trumpets. 
The housings were of mulberry, powdered with 
stars of gold. Garcilaso was mounted on long 
stirrups; over his suit of mail, which covered 
him completely, was thrown a short French 
mantle of dark silk brocade. His hat was white, 
and fresh from Paris, and it was gay with 
splendid plumes, while on his left arm was a 
round buckler with gold attachments. Behind 
him came ten pages most gorgeously bedecked. 

We had not gone far from camp when we 
heard the sound of approaching music, and 
behold, the queen’s company, a notable caval- 
cade. The queen rode a chestnut mule, and she 
was seated in a splendid saddle-chair, which 
gleamed with gilded silver. The housings of the 
mule were of crimson cloth, embroidered with 
gold; the reins and headpiece were of satin, 
embossed with silk handiwork and glittering 
with golden letters. Her skirt was of velvet; 
she wore a scarlet Moresco mantle, and a black 
hat, embroidered round the crown and brim. 
As her company passed the brave company 
which the Duke del Infantado had drawn out in 


PETONILLA’S COLORS 


H7 


battle array, the queen made a low obeisance to 
the banner of Seville, and ordered it to pass to 
the right hand (for it was upon the left). The 
king rode up to the queen, while all fell back. 
First they made to each other three profound 
reverences, as to the Queen of Castile and the 
King of Aragon. This ceremony being accom- 
plished to our infinite delight, the king advanced 
to her side and kissed her cheek. Then riding 
up to his daughter, the Infanta Isabella, he 
made the sign of the cross, blessed her, and 
kissed her tenderly. After this, our companies 
united, and I found myself (not by chance, but 
by skill) beside Petonilla. 

* ‘God is merciful to me,” said I, “that I see 
thee once more.” Now Petonilla gave me a 
look so strange I knew not what it meant, 
unless it were the dawning of love; for this 
look she had never bestowed upon me. It was 
still a look of inquiry, of doubt, of suspense, but 
it showed fear as well, and a strange timidity. 
Her face was wan and pitifully white as she 
answered, “Don Gardlaso, art thou my friend?” 

“What meaneth this doubt?” I said, in a low 
voice. “Nay, I will prove this day in the 


148 


GARCILASO 


tournament that my heart is true. I am not 
thy friend, but thy lover,” I said; “and I did 
not know how much thy lover, Petonilla, till 
thou didst go away.” 

Petonilla said, “Whose colors wilt fight for?” 

I drew back my mantle and showed her her 
own red scarf fastened to my arm. “I will 
never fight for any but thy colors while I live,” 
I said. “Hear my vow, Petonilla; hear it, 
heaven !” 

Now when I said those words a rosy light 
of gladness spread over her cheeks, and the wan 
face grew rich in color, and the lips parted in 
recovered buoyancy of spirit, and her eyes began 
to glow and sparkle as a star is sometimes seen 
when the shadow of a cloud has swept away. 
“God bless thee, my knight,” said she, in a 
voice that trembled; “God bless thee, and send 
victory in the lists to perch upon the crest of 
Garcias!” It was the first time she had called 
me so, it was the first time she had claimed me 
as her knight, it was the first time she had 
looked at me with those eyes or used to me 
that mellow voice. And right then and there 
I know her heart began to change toward me, to 


PETONILLA’S COLORS 


H9 


warm toward me, to tremble pleasantly with the 
thought of Garcilaso. And knowing this, how 
my eyes feasted upon her loveliness, and upon 
her state, and how they tried with all the might 
and faculty of eyes to tell her how dear she was 
to me! Now Petonilla wore a short skirt of 
crimson velvet, over other skirts of rich and 
elaborate brocade. About her was a scarlet 
mantilla, made after the fashion of the Moors. 
Her hat was black, it was trimmed with gold 
embroidery, and under it was a net of silk 
which came about her hair and gathered it in 
rich magnificence. When we reached the gal- 
lery, the ladies dismounted, and as I made a 
low bow to my lady (for here we were to part), 
imagine my transport when she held out to me 
her delicate hand! I sank upon my knee and 
pressed it to my lips; and even as I held it, after 
rising, she did give my hand a warm, sweet 
pressure. I went from that spot my mind in a 
whirl of dazzling light. I saw no one — I trod 
the air; I did not envy the king. 

I was in a dream until the trumpets blew the 
opening of the lists. As I waited outside the 
gate upon my horse, I was amazed to see 


GARCILASO 


* 5 ° 

Herbert Klein gallop up beside me. He was 
not richly attired. Grim and unusual he looked 
in his suit of mail. His horse was unornamented. 
He wore no colors. Now I had thrown my 
French mantle aside, and proudly to be seen was 
Petonilla’s red scarf as it streamed from my arm. 

“Indeed, Herbert,” said I, kindly, “I pray 
thee not to enter the lists; for though thou 
makest bold with books, here be lances instead 
of words.” 

“I know not if I shall enter the lists,” said he, 
quietly enough; “but if I do, I doubt not I shall 
come forth again. However, I am here at the 
command of thy Lord Captain, Hernando del 
Pulgar. His word to thee is, to abide without 
the lists till he come.” 

Fury leaped up in my heart, but I was so 
taken aback that I knew not what to do. While 
I debated with myself, the knights crowded into 
the lists, and the gates were shut. Herbert sat 
stolidly upon his horse, watching the merry 
encounter. As for me, I was sick at heart. 
Ponce de Leon rode up to me, and said he, 
“How now, Garcilaso, holdest back? I thought 
to meet thee in the very first encounter.” 


PETONILLA’S COLORS 


“On my soul,” cried I, “thou shalt meet 
me at the next, if the king himself forbid!” He 
was satisfied with that, and hovered near, wait- 
ing his time. As for me, I looked not upon the 
contest, for I was furious that I had not entered, 
in spite of old Pulgar, while the eyes of Petonilla 
were fresh for sights. At last it came to an end, 
nobody being hurt (according to the express 
commands of our queen), and the combatants 
rode forth. Then I crowded my way quickly 
into the inclosure, close followed by Herbert 
Klein. As for Ponce de Leon, he had entered 
by the opposite gate. 

Now scarce did I find myself within and the 
gate shut, when a man entered afoot and ran up 
to me, and it was Hernando Perez del Pulgar, 
my Lord Captain. I made for to see him not, 
but he cried out, “For God’s sake, Garcilaso!” 
I looked up at the countenance of Petonilla, 
which shone upon me with delighted confidence, 
and even as I looked, I saw her eyes stray to 
Herbert Klein, and I saw a look of great sad- 
ness follow. Quick as the stroke of a Christian 
I glanced at Herbert, and I saw his head sink, 
and his hand grip his lance the fiercer. 


GARCILASO 


* 5 2 

“For the love of the Virgin, stay me not!” 
I said, fiercely, to old Pulgar. “As every man 
hath his chance for immortality, my moment 
hath come!” 

“But this letter, Laso, this letter!” cried my 
Lord Captain; and then looking down, I saw 
that he was trying to crowd a letter into my 
hand. “It is from Petonilla to thee,” said he. 
“It is writ by Petonilla, and thou knowest I am 
true.” 

“Were it writ by a saint in heaven,” cried I, 
“even St. James, this were no time to peruse 
it.” 

“But thy vow!” he cried. 

Just then the trumpets sounded. There was 
a mad rush of cavaliers, and terrific encounters 
in the midst of the inclosure. Ponce de Leon 
had dashed toward me with lightning speed ; but 
seeing me remain motionless, he drew his reins 
and circled about me, chafing at the delay; for 
I had touched his shield with my lance-point, 
and he must meet me, or none. Herbert Klein 
had made no challenge, nor had he received any ; 
therefore he had remained by my side. 

While clash of steel and shout of victory and 


PETONILLA’S COLORS 


*53 


defeat smote upon the air, and while those in 
the gallery cried out encouragement and waved 
their silks and satins, Garcilaso, seated upon his 
impatient steed, read that letter — his first letter 
from Petonilla. He had never seen her hand- 
writing, but he knew she had written that letter, 
for Pulgar could not lie. 

“Dear my lord,” thus it began, “I have not 
dealt fairly with thee, and yet to share my secret 
with another means perhaps disgrace and death. 
Lord Pulgar hath put the truth before me in its 
proper light, and with God’s help I have the 
courage to tell thee all. And thou shalt know 
all before thou fightest for my colors.; and after 
knowing, if thou canst still fight for me, blessed 
be thou, Don Garcias Laso! And yet it is not 
a dreadful matter that I have to tell thee; it is 
no crime, no improper act. It is but this, that 
I love my God with all my heart, and his Blessed 
Son, the Lord Jesus Christ; and that I love to 
read the Holy Word of God, and that I try to 
obey as best I can ; and that the sins I commit, 
I confess to God in prayer, and to no priest. 
For I am of the Vaudois of Piedmont. I am 
not a Catholic, but a Christian, simply. 


*54 


GARCILASO 


‘‘Dear my lord, this is my secret, known only 
to thee and to that friend of thine whom once 
I trusted vainly. Dost thou remember the day 
when it was thy wish to prove thy kindness for 
me? ‘Prove me,’ thou saidst; ‘tell me thy sor- 
row.’ These were thy words. Well, and I 
prove thee now. Let not my faith in man 
perish through thee. For there was a time 
when I believed in thy friend Herbert, and 
trusting in him I had faith in all mankind. And 
now if thou fail me as he failed, alas! will it not 
be because I have trusted God the less and man 
too far? Oh, what do I write? I am writing 
for my life and honor! Both I place in thy 
hands. I am an Italian and thou a Spaniard ; 
I am of the primitive Christians, and thou a 
Catholic. But I am a woman and thou — Gar- 
cilaso. And so, dear my lord, I make an end, 
this second day before the great tournament. * 

“Written in camp before Granada, to my 
very good lord, the Lord of Bartras.’’ 

That was her letter, word for word. At first 
I scanned it hastily, scarce taking in the leaden 
weight of its meaning, for the image of Ponce de 
Leon danced between my eyes and the page. 


PETONILLA’S COLORS 


55 


Then again I read it, slowly* very slowly, trying 
to grasp the thought that lay buried under so 
many words. Of a sudden I became aware of 
the weight of my armor; it did seem that it 
would crush me. I longed to be free of it, for 
it was as if I could not get air to sustain my life. 
My breath failed, and a cold sweat dampened 
my brow. With my breast heaving as if I had 
but just run a race, and with my heart throbbing 
beyond my control, I reeled in the saddle, I fell 
forward upon the horse’s neck. But I plucked 
off my visor, the better to get my breath, and 
then I felt as if I might live, after all. And I 
lifted up my head (with what expression upon 
my face I know not), that the air might sweep 
over me. And my eyes turned without purpose 
or design ; as turns the compass toward its 
north, they turned toward Petonilla. 

White as a white rose was Petonilla, and in 
her fear, for she was sore afraid, she did appear 
as fragile and as delicate as any flower. She 
was watching me, with all her soul in her eyes 
crying for reprieve. And all were watching 
me — the king, the queen, the great circle of 
faces that surrounded the lists. There beside 


GARCILASO 


* 5 6 

me sat Herbert Klein upon his German horse, 
calm and steady in his gaze, in self-confidence 
secure. And yonder my lord the Seftor de 
Leon watched me with angry eyes, chafing 
because I held back from the encounter. But 
though in a manner I felt the presence of all 
others, it was as if they were so many breaths 
blowing the flame of my thought toward the 
Italian, the Piedmontese, the heretic, Peto- 
nilla. 

Ah, now I understood her well. That morn- 
ing she had met me with fear in her great eyes, 
because of this very letter which she supposed 
had already been delivered me. How she had 
blanched and trembled when we had ridden face 
to face! And how her look had changed to 
gladness! Why? Because she thought I had 
read this fatal letter; because she thought I 
already knew her secret, and knowing, still wore 
her scarf upon my arm. What! Did she think 
Garcilaso the Catholic would fight for the colors of 
a heretic? Why now did she tremble and pale 
as a white rose pales when the moonlight 
frightens it with its shadow? Alas, she saw her 
mistake; she perceived that I had not guessed 


PETONILLA’S COLORS 


*57 


her secret, and that now for the first time I read 
her cruel message. 

I tried to reflect upon the situation, to deter- 
mine what were best to do ; it was in vain. I 
tried to clear my mind, but a thousand words, 
incoherent yet insistent, seemed to sing them- 
selves over and over in my heated brain. And 
all about me was a great silence, for the second 
joust was ended, and the eyes of the beauty and 
the valor of Castile were bent upon me as upon 
a picture of despair. And then — and then in 
that fearful moment, whose terrible burden I felt 
more than I have ever felt the burden of a year — 
then I seized the colors of Petonilla; yes, I 
grasped in my frenzied hand the red scarf as it 
fluttered from my mailed arm. I tore it away; 
I cast it down, down into the dust. I wheeled 
my horse straight about and rode for the gate. 
And all about me a sound arose — a sound Gar- 
cilaso never thought to hear — a groan, a hiss, a 
universal outburst of scorn and derision. 

At the gate I was brought to a pause. “Thou 
canst not out,” said the herald, “till the play is 
over.” And so I should have known had I not 
been quite mad. I turned my horse about and 


GARCILASO 


158 

faced the gallery, not with defiance and hate for 
hate — ah, no ! but with the dead cold of a broken 
heart. I saw Herbert Klein leap from his steed 
and lift the colors of Petonilla from the ground. 
I saw him kiss that degraded scarf and bind it 
about his arm. I saw him mount again. And I 
heard the shout that rose to the sky — the shout 
of applause, “Herbert the German!” and, 
“Long life! Long life! Victory to the Ger- 
man knight!” He seemed unmoved by all the 
tumult. No color flooded his face, though 
Ferdinand the Catholic joined in the praise. 
But serious and unmoved as he had ever been, 
my friend rode up to Seftor Ponce de Leon and 
smote his shield with the lance till it rang again. 

Soon was the third encounter. Other knights 
met and broke their spears, but I think the con- 
course had eyes but for Herbert and his antago- 
nist. As for me, I looked on, still dazed and 
desperate, not caring how it went or how fared 
the world. They met in the middle of the 
arena. Now Ponce had his deadly spear, for he 
had thought to meet me in mortal combat, so he 
had not blunted the edge. He liked well what 
the German had done, for it was a right Spanish 


PETONILLA’S COLORS 


59 


deed ; and had not the cavaliers been bound each 
to his lady’s color, I think all would have leaped 
into the dust, as leaped Herbert, to lift up 
Petonilla’s scarf. And so Ponce could not, in 
his noble heart (and he was ever a right noble 
knight, though my mortal enemy), find resolu- 
tion to meet Herbert seriously with his deadly 
weapon. Rather he thought it better to let 
himself be defeated than to buy victory with 
the price of Herbert’s life. Therefore, when 
they met, Ponce made as if he struck amiss; 
but the blow of the German came true and 
terrible, so that the Spaniard was cast upon 
the ground. Thus was Ponce de Leon unhorsed, 
but not otherwise injured, by a German. 
Herbert could never have done it had the 
Spaniard been armed with a proper weapon; 
for Ponce de Leon was a mighty cavalier. But 
Herbert was a German. He was but a student — 
a man who sits much, making bold with printed 
words, but recking little of deeds. 

When my Lord Ponce de Leon rose to his 
feet, giddy and covered with dust, Herbert 
strode to the gallery ; he passed up the winding 
stair, he paused before the queen’s ladies, he 


i6o 


GARCILASO 


knelt before Petonilla. I could see well her face. 
When first Herbert lifted up her scarf from the 
ground where I had cast it, her face was like a 
red rose. But it had changed. And now she 
looked down upon the German as he knelt at her 
feet, and it seemed that she grew ill; for she 
started up, and shrank away. The wreath she 
had been holding, thinking therewith to deck my 
brow should I prove her victorious champion, 
fell upon the floor. She drew still away, and 
passed behind the queen. Herbert looked very 
sad; but he lifted up the wreath, and carrying 
it in his hand (for he would have none other 
crown him), he came down to us again. 

Now at this moment, while all who were not 
gazing after the shrinking form of Petonilla as it 
half crouched behind the queen still looked 
upon me in unmeasured scorn, the gate was 
thrown open. 

The cavaliers began to crowd in and out. I 
passed through the entrance and put spurs to 
my horse. I galloped far away, I know not 
where. Somehow that day wore to an end. 
Strive as I may to bring it back again, all is dim 
after I left the lists. What I did or thought I 


PETONILLA’S COLORS 


161 


know not. But this I know, that somewhere in 
the Vega and among the mountains that sur- 
round that vast plain, while I was alone, all 
alone, I read that letter, writ by Petonilla’s 
little hand — I read it over and over, and over 
yet again. And though I burned it before the 
sun of that terrible day had set, and cast its 
ashes in the breath of the wind, its words abode 
with me, as they abide to day. 

I remember that when I came home at 
night, and started into my apartment, Herbert 
Klein sat beside the lamp with a faded wreath 
upon his knee, and he was looking at it with 
eyes that shone through tears. I faced about 
and to horse again, and all that night I saw 
neither sleep nor quietude. But my mind had 
cleared, though my agony was the sharper for 
that ; and at the dawn of day I sought my father 
confessor, Father Pedro, to tell him of my woe, 
and to seek what comfort he could give. 


CHAPTER XII 


TO GIVE UP PETONILLA 

Father Pedro was in the prime of life, tall, 
portly, with thin lips and gray eyes that looked 
through narrowed lids. He was a brave warrior 
as well as a faithful priest. He dressed with 
magnificence ; he kept a royal state. There were 
rumors about him, but they were not worse than 
what one heard every day. At the worst, he 
loved life and its pleasures, riches, and the 
power they brought him, and wine, it was said — 
and his tastes did not stop there. But no mat- 
ter; he dealt many a stroke against the Moors. 

I found him alone, and after he had inquired 
my trouble (for grief was written upon my face), 
I scarce knew what to say. I asked him a ques- 
tion: “Father, suppose I love some one with all 
my soul, and suppose I find out that that one is 
not worthy of me?” 

He cast upon me one of his keen, quick 
glances, and said, “Forget her.” 

“As soon can I forget that I am Garcilaso!” 

162 


TO GIVE UP PETONILLA 


163 


“Then,” he said, “make her worthy.” 

“Alas!” I cried. 

“What crime hath she done?” he asked. 

“No crime, Father. She is pure and fair.” 

“Very fair, my son?” 

“As fair as the day. There is no lady in 
Spain to compare with her in beauty.” 

“Ah!” said he. “I would I could see this 
lady. Tell me who she is, my son, and doubt- 
less I can make her worthy of thee.” 

“I cannot tell her name,” I said, slowly, for 
there was that in his eyes that brought me to 
a sudden pause. Now the priest sat and looked 
at me with a sleepy look, such as I had some- 
times seen in his eyes when he was most 
awake. There was a silence between us, which 
he broke thus: “Is she more beautiful than 
Dona Margaret de Medina Sidonia?” 

“By far!” 

“Hath she such a form as the form of the 
Countess de Tendilla?” 

“More perfect, more youthful, more divine.” 

“Ah,” said he, slowly; “and she hath com- 
mitted no crimes to make her unworthy thee?” 

“None; she is as an angel.” 


164 


GARCILASO 


“And yet she is unworthy?’ ’ 

Garcilaso groaned. 

“My son,” said he, closing, as it seemed to 
me, his eyes entirely, “is she a heretic?” And 
as soon as he had asked that, he opened his eyes 
to their widest extent and fastened them upon 
me with a fearful directness» 

“She is.” 

“A Jewess?” 

“Nay; one of the Vaudois of Piedmont, such 
as call themselves Christians, read the Bible, 
scorn the confessional, reject the miracle of the 
Holy Mass, call upon no saints.” 

“There is such a one in Spain?” he cried, 
quickly. “Where, my son?” 

I held my peace. 

“Where is she, my son? I command thee, 
I, thy father confessor, command thee in the 
name of my holy office to tell me her name and 
her hiding-place.” 

“And what then?” I said, in a whisper. 

“And what then, my son? The Inquisition; 
the torture; the auto da //.” 

“I cannot, I cannot give her up,” said I, in 
an agony. “Oh, Father, she is so beautiful and 


TO GIVE UP PETONILLA 


65 


innocent. Can I think of her limbs being torn 
upon the rack, of her screams, her cries for 
mercy — ” And my voice broke into dry and 
bitter sobs. 

“Garcilaso, dost thou love thy God and the 
Blessed Virgin Mary?” 

“Thou knowest, Father.” 

“Dost thou honor the king and queen?” 

“I am Garcilaso!” 

Tell me her name,” he said; and now his 
voice was imperative, his lips pressed tightly 

I hung my head. 

“My son, thou thinkest of her agony upon 
the rack, of her sufferings at the stake. But 
dost thou not think of the Blessed Savior as he 
hangs bleeding upon the cross? Canst thou not 
hear his groans, and see his tears? Ah, he is 
looking down upon thee now. Wilt thou pre- 
fer a lovely form in which is all the blackness of 
hell to the Holy Mother of God? How canst 
thou say an Ave Maria when thy heart is lost 
to a wicked heretic? Thou callest her inno- 
cent, and an angel. What! Is the enemy of 
God an angel? Then a fallen angel, reserved 
for eternal torment. Is the enemy of the 


GARCILASO 


1 66 


church innocent? Beware, Garcilaso! I love 
thee, but beware! For he who hides a heretic 
is counted as a heretic. But not by the sense of 
fear would I move thee. Oh, my son, now is 
the time come for thee to fight the greatest fight 
that was ever vouchsafed to a cavalier. Not 
with swords, but with passions; not for the 
honors of the tournament, but for the glories of 
heaven. All the saints in heaven look down 
upon thee at this moment. Thy father and 
mother, though in purgatory, feel the agonies 
of hell at thy indecision. Christ is crucified 
anew, and the Blessed Virgin Mary awaits thy 
decision with fear and sorrow. Garcilaso, I 
have fought beside thee in battle, I have received 
thee for years at the confessional ; thou art more 
as a brother to me than as a son. I plead with 
thee — and what? Not to do me a favor, but to 
do thyself an honor — to please our God. Be a 
brave knight; be heaven’s knight. Help the 
church to put down rebellion and heresy. Christ 
prayed that his children might be one; when 
thou hidest a heretic, thou scornest his prayer. 
Now is the time for thee to show true courage. 
Be brave, be valiant, be worthy of thy king and 


TO GIVE UP PETONILLA 


167 


country. This woman is a traitor to Spain, a 
rebel to the church; she is hated of God. 
Deliver her up, deliver her to the Inquisition. 
It may be that she will be converted to the true 
faith. Then how happy wilt thou be, for even 
so she may become worthy to wed with thee. 
But if thou concealest her and her accursed 
errors of doctrine, they will spread as she goeth 
from place to place. Thou canst no longer go 
to confessional, or raise thy heart in prayer; thy 
penance will avail thee naught; indulgences will 
not be for thee; thou wilt be lost eternally. 
But more than that, thou must be delivered up 
to the Inquisition in lieu of the wretched but 
beautiful lady of Piedmont.” 

What more he said I cannot tell. But his 
words poured forth in torrents, and every one of 
them was true and right and touched me to the 
quick. And yet when I opened my lips to 
speak the name of Petonilla, my breath died 
away. At last I rose, and staggered as I walked 
to the door, for I was light of head. “Oh, 
Father, bear with me one day. Let me nurse 
my pain all alone, and in the morning I will 
come to thee and tell thee, if I have the courage. 


68 


GARCILASO 


Father/’ I said, “the fear of the Inquisition is 
nothing to me when I think of my darling suf- 
fering the death. Fear doth not move me one 
inch, nor threats a step. But I do love my God, 
my king, and my church; for these I will suffer 
as much as I can bear; for these I will do all 
that I can do. Give me till to-morrow’s sun.’’ 

“Till to-morrow’s sun,’’ said he, solemnly; 
“I grant thy weak request. And God have 
mercy upon thy soul!’’ 

I left him then and went my way. And it • 
seemed that I had left with him the young 
Garcilaso, for I felt strange and old. 


CHAPTER XIII 

FOR LIFE OR DEATH 

I had a brief interview with old Pulgar when 
I dared to trust myself with him. “Why, my 
Lord Captain , 0 cried I, in the bitterness of my 
soul, “why didst thou force Petonilla to confess 
her heresy? Why bring that letter, and break 
my spirit ?” 

“Not to break thy spirit,” said the gruff old 
warrior, “but to save thee from hell and treason. 
I love thee, Garcias, and rather than see thee 
wedded to an enemy of thy church and king, I 
would lay thee low with my own hand. I love 
thee, and thy honor is dear to me.” 

“Now God forgive me,” cried I, “that I hate 
thee for what thou hast done!” 

“Hate thy fill; but this I know, that I have 
saved thee, Garcias. And the time will come — the 
time will come when thou wilt bless the name of 
Hernando Perez del Pulgar for that letter!” 

“Never, never,” cried I; “I swear it on my 
soul.” 

169 


70 


GARCILASO 


“Garcias, thou art mad from love. But love 
is of a day; the day passeth by, and with it 
passeth the love that its sun shone upon. And 
when that love hath lost its fury, and grown cold 
and dead, then the soul awakes, and it perceiveth 
that it was greater than the past love, and that 
it hath room to home many a brave purpose and 
honest delight. I have loved, Garcias, and I 
mind the time when I thought that love was my 
life. But behold, I live, I am a leader of men, 
I pass to and fro as happy as another, but I love 
not. For what I thought was my all in all, my 
breath, my being, was naught but a small thing, 
so near, indeed, that it hid the heavens and the 
earth. But when love dropped from mine eyes, 
behold the heavens, behold the earth!” 

“It may be so with thee,” said I, “but Gar- 
cilaso loveth for all time. Enough of that ; thou 
canst not enter my soul. Grant me a promise; 
keep secret the fatal errors of Petonilla, keep 
secret that she is of the Vaudois, until to-mor- 
row’s sun. Father Pedro hath given me till 
then to reflect upon my fate and hers. As yet 
he knoweth not who hath won my heart.” So 
Pulgar promised. And he would have taken me 


FOR LIFE OR DEATH 


171 


in his arms for an embrace, but I could not. I 
could not even take his hand. And yet in my 
soul I knew he loved me, and had done all 
things for his love. And I knew that he was a 
lonely old man, and had grown to depend upon 
my company, and to consider me as a son; but 
I could not ; I would have pleased him if I could. 

Now that day I spoke to none other, for I 
was in the mountains. But as night drew on, 
I knew what I had to do. And when it was 
quite dark, I rode slowly toward our encamp- 
ment, and drew rein before the pavilion of Peto- 
nilla. The soft music of the serenade made the 
air sad and sweet. The gleam of blue and yel- 
low and red and purple, as lights flashed from 
silken tents, added the needed touch of beauty 
to my sorrow to make its tragedy complete. 
My poor horse drooped his head when I dis- 
mounted, for I had used him ill. I had not 
thought of him, for grief makes a cruel master. 
It seemed that he scarce could stand. There- 
fore I turned him loose, thinking he would go to 
his stall, and scarce caring if he went amiss; for 
nothing would matter to me after to-morrow’s 


sun. 


172 


GARCILASO 


I was conducted to the reception-room, where 
I paced up and down a long and tedious hour, 
and it seemed that Petonilla would never come. 
There jvas a little breeze, and it moved the 
tent-walls in gentle undulations. The light rose 
and fell fitfully. From far up the street came 
the sound of loud, wild laughter, and when it 
died away, strains from sweet instruments filled 
the pause. A belated cavalier clattered by, 
then suddenly all was still, for it grew late. 

At last Petonilla came, dressed all in black, 
and she was not attended; for well she knew 
she was in deadly peril, and to our interview 
there must be no listeners. We made to each 
other no sign of greeting. Her first words were: 
“I was seeking slumber, cavalier, but it hid 
itself, and as I tossed restlessly, word came of 
thy visit. I hurried to prepare myself for thy 
reception, but after that I waited to make sure 
that my maidens had all gone to rest. Forgive 
this delay.” 

I sought to say something, but my words 
died in my throat. I cast my eyes upon the 
ground. 

“My letter reached thee safely,” she said. 


FOR LIFE OR DEATH 


73 


“Through Don Pulgar,’’ I answered. 

“It was a gay tournament,’ * said Petonilla. 

“Gay?” said I, not knowing what I said. 

“My colors won,” she said. 

“Petonilla, Petonilla, thou hast broken my 
heart.’’ 

“What have I done, my lord?’’ 

“What hast thou done? Alas! thou hast 
deceived me, played with me, betrayed me.’’ 

“Thou deceivest thyself, my lord.’’ 

“Petonilla, fairest, and most untrue! why 
were thy lips sealed as touching thy heresy? 
Why didst thou keep silence when I spoke of 
the faith? That evening we sat among the ruins 
of Zubia — ah, heaven ! what thoughts, what 
dreams were mine with thee beside me! Peton- 
illa, when we spoke of the Vaudois of Piedmont, 
and when I cried out that would to God they 
were all slain, why didst not tell me what thou 
wert ?’ ’ 

“I was afraid, my lord.’’ 

“Afraid! Thou wert afraid in the presence 
of my true and holy passion! Well wert thou 
afraid ! The love I felt for thee was spotless as 
the light in Paradise. In the presence of that 


174 


GARCILASO 


affection, thou didst well to be afraid — thou, a 
traitor, a heretic!” 

‘‘As thou believest, I am both,” she said. 
“Well, dost thou despise me because I was 
afraid? I am but a woman.” 

“Ah,” said I, “if thou wert but a woman! 
But more art thou, a heretic, full of deadly doc- 
trine and impious contempt of the holy church. 
What now is my duty, Petonilla?” 

“Thy duty, my lord?” 

“Ay, my bounden duty. Thou hatest the 
church, the bride of the Blessed Savior, thou 
dishonorest the Holy Mother of God. The 
blessed Pope hath commanded a crusade of 
extermination against all thy people. My king 
hath commanded his subjects to give up all here- 
tics. My father confessor hath charged me to 
surrender thee. What is my duty, Petonilla?” 

“What is mine offense?” said she. “I have 
harmed no man, I have taught no one my doc- 
trine, I love thy God and thy Savior; and my 
hope, as thine, is to enter heaven at the final 
day, and to live forever with the saints.” 

“Petonilla,” I answered, “thy hope is a 
delusion; and while thou livest in it, thou art 


FOR LIFE OR DEATH 


*75 

a rebel to heaven. Petonilla, if thou didst 
indeed love my God and my Savior, thou 
wouldst obey with gladness the blessed Pope, 
who alone knoweth the will of God. The Pope 
declareth the oracles of God; the Pope saith not 
his thoughts, but the thoughts that heaven sends 
to him. What then? Is he not as an angel 
from above bearing precious words? What the 
church commands is what God commands.” 

“Of what use, then, is the Bible?” said she; 
“for could not your Pope do without it?” 

“Petonilla, what the church commands, God 
commands. It is God who commands me to 
give thee up to the Inquisition. Petonilla, it is 
the will of heaven. And by to-morrow’s sun 
thou shalt be surrendered to the Holy Office.” 

“And thou wilt give me up — thou?' ' 

“I, even I. For though I love thee with 
fierce passion, I will be true to my God, if it kill 
me.” 

“Thinkest thou, Don Garcilaso, that it is true 
to him to be false to me?” 

“How false? In what am I false to thee?” 

“In that thou saidst thou didst love me, 
Garcias. 


17 6 


GARCILASO 


“I loved thee, Petonilla, with every thought. 
I loved thee, and I love thee now, and what I 
could do for thee I would; but prove traitor to 
God and the king I cannot.” 

“Garcias, Garcias,” said she, and she fell 
upon her knees before me, so that I was forced 
to see her face (for all this time I had looked 
fixedly upon the ground), “hast thou considered 
my fate? How at the best they will bind my 
hands and feet to heavy beams, how they will 
strip me and lash me with cruel thongs; how 
they will force the beams apart till my bones are 
pulled from the sockets; how they will cut my 
flesh with knives and burn it with hot irons in 
slow torture ; how they will draw forth my hair, 
my teeth, and how all this will be the best they 
can do to me?” 

I have said Petonilla was dressed all in black. 
As I now looked down upon her white face, and 
upon her white hands and arms, so white for the 
black attire, like unto marble, the pity of it came 
to me anew, for it was not a fresh thought, but 
the agony of all that day. And I fell down 
upon my knees before her, even as she knelt; 
and if her face was wild and pitiful, I know mine 


FOR LIFE OR DEATH 


177 


was gaunt and terrible with my suffering. And, 
“Oh, Petonilla, what can I do?” I wailed; “what 
can I do? And think not but every pain that 
afflicts thee will draw anguish from my soul. 
Thou little one! and must this punishment be 
thine? But oh, my darling, thou wilt recant, 
thou wilt say the Credo, thou wilt be con- 
verted!” 

“I know not how much I can bear,” said 
she, “but while I can endure I will be true to 
my faith. Shouldst thou ever see me again, 
Garcias, I will not be as I am now; for my 
limbs will be broken, my flesh burnt and torn 
away. If thou ever seest me again, it will be at 
the auto da ft, and at the stake.” 

To think of those perfect arms, those little 
hands and feet, being burned with irons and torn 
with sharp hooks — to think of that fair and pure 
face becoming livid and shriveled up with tor- 
ture — and yet of what else had I thought all that 
day, and all the night before! “Ah, Petonilla,” 
cried I, “thy little body is as dear to me as my 
own flesh ; thy person is sacred to me, from this 
dear foot” (and I bent down and I did kiss that 
little foot as it was extended behind her upon 


178 


GARCILASO 


the ground) “to this fair brow” (and I saluted 
her forehead). Yes, I had thought of all this 
before — of her suffering; but it was different 
with her before me, pulsating with life, and 
every curve of her form crying for mercy. 

She strained her eyes upon my face in her 
wild terror, and at my kiss no blush visited her. 
“Garcias, I have spoken of the best that can 
befall me in the Inquisition. But I must speak 
on, and I will, for thou art 1 a knight, and thou 
wilt think no harm of words that mean no evil. 
Garcias, I had friends among the Jews. There 
were three maidens, daughters of an old man, 
Korah. They were beautiful girls.” 

“Alas, alas!” cried I. “But, Petonilla, was 
their beauty a virtue? I can but consider their 
fatal religion. Oh, that God would blind me to 
thy charms, to thine exquisite fairness, poor 
child!” 

“But wait,” she said, in a voice that thrilled 
me with horror. “Listen while I tell thee. 
Those three damsels were seized upon and taken 
to the Inquisition. They were not tortured, 
Garcias; their fatal beauty was not marred — ah, 
woe is me! And to-day they are imprisoned in 


FOR LIFE OR DEATH 


179 


a certain keep, where they form part of a 
degraded and wretched harem. Garcias, Gar- 
cias, I shall go mad!’ 

Then in a flash, quick as the stroke of a 
Christian, there rose before me, I know not 
why, the face and the eyes, ay, the eyes, of 
Father Pedro. “By heaven, it shall never be!” 
I cried, leaping to my feet. As I stood I reeled 
blindly. Then it seemed that my eyes were full 
of fire. The light burned blood-red and the 
curtains were red, and the face of Petonilla 
seemed stained with blood. And a voice whis- 
pered, then shrieked within me, “Kill, kill!” 
I tore my dagger from my side and seized Peto- 
nilla by the shoulder. She did not tremble. I 
know not what I would have done, for my reason 
had fled quite from me, and I was insane from 
agony. 

But suddenly my arm was caught in a power- 
ful grasp, and a voice said in my ear, “Thou 
villain ! ’ ' 

“Herbert, Herbert,” I cried, wildly. “Oh, 
Herbert, what shall I do?” For it was as if I 
realized what I would have done in a dream. I 
fell down and clasped Petonilla about the knees. 


i8o 


GARCILASO 


“Oh, Petonilla, what was it? Did I threaten 
thee, my life’s only treasure, my heart’s only 
desire? Would I have wounded thee, have 
struck thee? Petonilla, did I hold the dagger 
to take thy life? But it was to save thee — I 
know not what it meant, only this, that what I 
meant for thee I meant for myself.” 

Then did Petonilla first lay her hand upon 
my head, and then did she put both arms about 
my neck, and she kissed me upon the forehead, 
and she said, “I understood thee, Garcias.” 

I rose and held out my arms to Herbert. 
“My friend, God bless thee, as I do from my 
soul, for coming at that moment. I know not 
what might have happened,” I said, “but my 
madness is gone, and my love for thee is the 
love of a lonely man who hath but one friend.” 

Then Herbert Klein drew back, and he 
looked at me coldly, and he said: “Enough, 
Don Garcilaso de la Vega; hear me. The spies 
of the Inquisition are coming. Without is my 
good horse — no time to lose! From the moment 
thou readst that letter I knew what thou wouldst 
do, my Lord of Bartras. I knew thee, a Cath- 
olic! Nay, but though I thought thou wouldst 


FOR LIFE OR DEATH 181 

give her up to Torquemada, I could not think 
thou wouldst have taken her life. I have pre- 
pared a hiding-place. I shall bear Petonilla 
away, and where we go no one can follow. So 
do thy worst, Seftor Cavalier, do thy worst. But 
if thou seekest to stop me, thou who didst save 
my life, I will lay thee at my feet. Murderer, 
stand back!” Then he turned to Petonilla. 

4 ‘Come, here is thy only chance of life, thy only 
hope to preserve thy honor. Quick! Soon 
Father Pedro will be upon the way.” 

He caught her hand, and tried to run with 
her to the entrance. I stood as if turned to 
stone. She snatched away her hand, and faced 
him. “It is better,” she said, “to fall into the 
hands of real enemies than into the hands of 
pretended friends. What I may expect from 
the Inquisition I know. But what I may expect 
from thee, my lord, is known only to Korah and 
his three daughters. Thou hast done ill, Seftor 
Klein de Metz, in checking the dagger of thy 
friend. He would have saved my honor, and I 
believe God would have saved my soul.” 

“Nay, nay, Petonilla,” I cried out; “think 
not thus of Herbert. I swear to thee that he is 


182 


GARCILASO 


thy true friend. Upon my soul, he will not 
betray thee.” 

“It is well for thee to trust him,” said she, 
bitterly; “but I have known him put to the 
test.” 

“I care not if thou trust me or no,” said the 
German, quietly; “but this I know, that I will 
take thee hence to safety ; willing, if may be, and 
if not, against thy will.” So saying, he turned 
about and dashed from the tent. Petonilla stood 
looking at me, knowing not what to think. 

“Go with him, fair lady,” I urged, “for it is 
thine only hope. And I cannot endure that 
thou entreatest him so hardly; for he is well- 
deserving.” 

Before she could answer, Herbert rode his 
horse into the tent. He drew up beside her. 
“Dear my lady,” he said, bending down that he 
might extend to her his hand, “put thy foot 
upon mine, and spring up with my help, for as 
God lives, I am thy true knight, though still 
uncrowned.” 

She shrank back and stood beside me. She 
laid one hand upon my arm. “I will abide with 
Garcilaso,” she said, “for he will never let me 


FOR LIFE OR DEATH 


§3 


be dishonored. But thou, Seftor Herbert Klein, 
thou with thy fair words and treacherous deeds 
art not to be trusted with the all that a maiden 
hath. Thou wert Korah’s friend ; thou gavest 
him up to the Inquisition. Thou wert the friend 
of his three daughters ; thou didst turn them over 
to the mercies of venomous priests, that they 
may enjoy their youth and beauty until they 
grow old; then the torture, the stake. And 
now thou art my friend.' > ' > Suddenly she laid 
her other hand upon my dagger as it still 
quivered in my grasp, and she said, “But here 
is a better friend than thou, my lord, and this 
cavalier will not keep it from my protection.” 

Herbert dismounted and approached me, and 
I never thought to see his face so moved, or his 
actions so like those of men of fire and noble 
eagerness. “Garcilaso,” he cried, as he put a 
hand upon my arm, while Petonilla still clung to 
the other, “speak the words I cannot say, speak 
the words that will save this lady; for as God 
lives, the spies of the Inquisition will be here in 
a very few moments, with thy cursed Father 
Pedro at their head. They are upon the way, I 
know. Oh, in God’s name, delay no longer! 


S 4 


GARCILASO 


Not for my sake, my Lord of Bartras, not 
because I love her, not because her cruel words 
strike like poisoned arrows into my heart, not 
because thou hast been my friend, Garcias. Oh, 
no, but for her sake, so she will trust me, and 
go with me to freedom. Speak the truth and 
clear me from her cruel thoughts.” 

“Petonilla, ” I said, slowly — for though the 
need was great, to tell her quickly was more 
than I was able. “Petonilla — ” I paused. That 
name, ah, how dear it was to me ! And how 
my whole being was lifted up to feel her hand 
in trust upon my arm ! She had come to me — 
to me — to defend her from Herbert. She had 
come to me as a little child, in all innocence and 
purity and steadfastness of a noble mind. 
“Petonilla, thou art wrong.” I paused again. 
Then I knew I could not go on with her hand 
touching me. I took it gently and placed it at 
her side, and stepped back. “Petonilla, it was 
I who delivered Korah and his daughters to the 
Inquisition. Now go with Herbert, for that 
was not his doing.” 

'‘Ah, Garcias,” said she, “wouldst malign 
thyself for the benefit of thy friend?” 


FOR LIFE OR DEATH 


i8 5 


“Not so, Petonilla. Herbert refused to dis- 
close the whereabouts of the daughters, and as 
for the old Jew Korah, Herbert hid him in his 
baggage. The iniquisitors were about to drag 
away Herbert to the Inquisition. But I had 
grown to like this German; and being a true 
Catholic, I hated all Jews, male or female. So 
I uncovered Korah and told where his daughters 
lay hidden, and thus saved Herbert’s life. For 
I did not know thee then, Petonilla, nor if Korah 
and his daughters were aught to thee. And 
what they are to thee, I know not. But they 
were Jews, and I a Christian. I speak not to 
excuse myself, Petonilla, but that thou mayest 
know Herbert is a true friend. I know I speak 
words that kill in thy soul that liking for me 
which, methinks, was about to burst into bloom. 
But enough. Trust Herbert, and be saved.’’ 

Then I turned to my friend, and said: “Thy 
hand, Herbert.’’ He did not take my hand, 
but put his arms about me in a swift embrace. 
And when he turned about, there was Petonilla, 
kneeling at his feet. And upon her face there 
was a look such as I had never seen in all my 
life. I saw her lips move, but there was no 


86 


GARCILASO 


sound of words. And she stretched up her arms 
to him, then in the next moment drew them 
back as if she were ashamed, and folded them 
upon her bosom, and hung her head. Quick as 
the stroke of a Christian, Herbert lifted her up 
in his arms, as if her weight had been light as 
a thought of childhood; and he set her upon his 
horse, then sprang before, and made as if to ride 
forth. 

And, “My Lord of Bartras, ” said Petonilla, 
looking down upon me, “I enter into thy char- 
acter and motives, so that I am enabled to 
forgive thy cruelty to my old friends, and to 
love thee for thy faithfulness to thy friend. 
Here is my hand. Think well of me. And as 
for Petonilla, she will always be proud of this 
truth, that once Garcilaso loved her.” 

Then she gave her hand, and I did kiss it 
tenderly. And I did look into her face with all 
the intensity of my soul, to stamp for the last 
time her image upon my heart. While still I 
gazed, in ran one of Herbert’s Moorish slaves, 
and, “Oh, my master!” cried he, “the priests 
have discovered the cave which thou preparedst 
for the hiding-place.” 


FOR LIFE OR DEATH 


187 


“Is it so?” cried Herbert. “Then, alas, 
Petonilla, I know not what to do. But let us 
away. Perchance in some wise we may escape. 
Nay, we must — ” 

That sentence never reached its close; for, 
following the quick motion of his slave, he saw, 
and we all saw, three horsemen at the tent 
entrance. One of them was Father Pedro. The 
other two were officers of the holy brotherhood. 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE GREAT CONFLAGRATION 

Ay, there at the tent-entrance sat those three 
horsemen, grim and terrible, with the gloom of 
a clouded night for their background. In them 
I saw typified all the vengeance and justice of 
the Inquisition, and for once in his life — let me 
alone say the words — Garcilaso was afraid. But 
one quick glance did Herbert dart over his 
shoulder as still he held dear Petonilla before 
him upon the saddle; then he turned about 
that they might not see his face ; and he 
seemed to droop his head in earnest thought, 
though the moment was crying for a deed. The 
lamp-light flared and sent the shadow of Her- 
bert’s horse dancing up and down the silken 
curtains of the tent. Father Pedro sat with his 
eyes fastened upon the form of Petonilla. He 
was very still and calm, and a smile played about 
his even-shaven lips. He was in no hurry. Did 
not he and his companions block in the game? 
And so he drank slowly his cup of victory. 

1 88 


THE GREAT CONFLAGRATION 189 


“Well, Garcilaso,” said the holy man, in a 
tone long-drawn and smooth as oil, “so this is 
thy heretic! And it is Seftorita Fontane! And 
thou hast set her upon a horse, bidding this 
knight carry her hence? Nay, this were not 
well. For shame, Seftor de Vega! Where is 
thy love for the church and thy zeal for thy 
king? Give over, give over this trifling. But 
tell me, my son, who is your accomplice in this 
diabolical conspiracy? Who is this unknown 
with the straight back and drooping head?” 
For Herbert had attired him in an unusual suit, 
so that he could not be known unless his face 
were scanned. Now I answered never a word, 
but stared, cold with dread, at the curtain-wall, 
whereon the shadows played. And Herbert 
moved not. But Petonilla quivered from head 
to foot. 

“Enough,” said Father Pedro, suddenly. 
“The play is over!” And turning to the inquisi- 
tors, he said, still in his even, gentle voice, “Ride 
forward and take him. And the girl!” 

Father Pedro held his horse against the exit 
of the tent, perchance fearing Herbert would 
wheel and seek to make a dash for freedom. 


190 


GARCILASO 


Then the inquisitors, zealous for their king and 
God, with drawn swords, urged their horses upon 
the German. 

Then Herbert cried out, sharply, “Zagal!" 
It was the name of his Moorish slave, who, it 
might be, could think of some way to aid him. 
At least so it seemed to me — a cry for help. 
But first his mind was to help himself. He 
drew his glittering blade, quick as the stroke of 
a Christian. The holy men checked their steeds 
to await the attack. But Herbert, instead of 
turning to face them, rode straight toward the 
opposite side of the tent, and scarce pausing, 
slit with his rapier the silken curtain above his 
head, then down either side ; and thus he made 
an opening, for the curtain fell down before him, 
and the black sky looked into our faces. Then 
he leaped his horse over the low barrier that still 
remained, for he could not reach to the ground 
with his blade, and we had one glimpse of his 
fleeting form, and of the flying draperies of 
Petonilla. The next instant we were sur- 
rounded by intense darkness, for the Moorish 
slave had overturned and extinguished the 
lamp. 


THE GREAT CONFLAGRATION 191 

When the holy men comprehended the mean- 
ing of the scene they had witnessed, they drove 
home their spurs and started in pursuit. They 
gave no thought to me. One of the horsemen 
sped swiftly after the fugitives. The second 
was thrown to the ground, for his horse stumbled 
over the curtain that stretched across the open- 
ing. Father Pedro dashed around the tent, and 
so after Herbert and Petonilla. Now, God and 
St. James and the Holy Mother be with the 
German! thought I, and I made what haste I 
could to preserve myself. Alas, and alas! Into 
what a plight had I fallen ! And now the 
heavens witnessed Garcilaso seeking to hide 
from the eyes of men. I had no other thought 
but that of flight. What I would do upon the 
morrow, how I might fashion my after life, what 
could give me happiness even if I escaped — of 
all this I thought nothing. Only this I felt: 
that I had aided a heretic to escape, and there- 
fore, if found, I should be burned at the stake. 
For well I knew Father Pedro would never for- 
give my part in his defeat. So I did not ven- 
ture near my tent, but sped abroad, crouching 
close to the ground. 


192 


GARCILASO 


But at last a thought came to me, a clear, 
bright, crystal thought. If I could reach the 
queen, might not all be well? Would she not 
forgive? And if Father Pedro found me, she 
would never know her cavalier had fallen! I 
turned about, I crept along the fortifications. 
Now the beat of hurrying hoofs drew near, and 
I crouched low in a ravine. I was near the 
queen’s pavilion. A little more and I might 
have fallen at her feet. But the horse was near 
at hand. It was checked for a brief time, then 
it thundered away. I held my breath, and 
seemed to see Father Pedro creeping toward me 
with a dagger in his grasp. Then other horses 
were to be heard. They drew close, then circled 
wide away. There were footsteps near me. A 
stone was dislodged and rolled against my knee. 
The dust scattered like fine rain. Garments 
rustled near. I heard a panting breath. Some 
one was coming toward me as if he had eyes for 
the blackest gloom. But suddenly he stopped. 
Nay, they stopped, for there were two. 

“Rest here,” said a voice. My heart leaped. 

“Is that the queen’s pavilion?” came another 
voice. That was Petonilla! I could have 


THE GREAT CONFLAGRATION 


T 93 


reached through the thicket and touched her 
skirt. I made no sound. 

“Ay,” said Herbert. “Petonilla, if I did 
not wisely in dismounting and turning free my 
horse, I meant it for the best.” 

“I know,” said Petonilla, “that thou ever 
meanest for the best.” 

“Ay,” said the German, in his imperturbable 
tone; “when thou art told so!” 

“Herbert!" It was all she said, so low, so 
soft/ and so accusing that my heart was touched. 
I thought she would not have had another know 
that she used that tone to any man. And so I 
did not tell her that another had heard the beat 
of her heart. 

“They will follow the riderless horse,” said 
Herbert. They spoke very low, so that some- 
times I was obliged to guess a word or substitute 
one (that may very well have been a better). 
“When they overtake it, and find us not, they 
will have been led far away. And so, Senorita 
Fontane, I hope yet to get thee safe through the 
night.” 

“Herbert,” said she, “what else could I 
think?” 


*94 


GARCILASO 


“What else but what?” said he, coldly. 

“I left Korah in thy charge, Herbert, and he 
had told thee of his three daughters. Then I 
heard of their fearful fate, and I was told thou 
gavest up the poor old Jew — gavest him up to the 
rack. What else could I think, Herbert? How 
could I know that the Spaniard Garcilaso, with 
a Spaniard’s cunning, had delivered them to 
save thee?” 

Yes, she called it cunning, not religion, not 
patriotism, not fidelity to a friend, but a Span- 
iard’s cunning! They were her words. 

“Petonilla, ” said Herbert, all unmoved, “if 
I should lead thee any bright morning to look at 
the glowing sun, and should tell thee, ‘See, my 
lady, how glooms the night!’ wouldst thou 
swear the sun out of the sky? So I would laugh 
if any one, I care not who, should point at 
Petonilla and cry a cloud upon her bright purity. 
But it was well for thee to doubt me. What 
else couldst thou do but think me false? What 
indeed! For if thou hadst loved me, Petonilla, 
then had it been a different matter. Do I blame 
thee, Senorita Fontane? Have I cast one 
reproach? Not I. For well I know, my lady, 


THE GREAT CONFLAGRATION 


l 95 


that it was Garcilaso, and not I, who held thy 
heart in the golden net of love.” 

“ Never, Herbert, never!” 

“Never, my lady? What then? Where was 
thy love for me when doubt of me crouched in 
thy soul?” 

“Indeed, my lord, there had been no word of 
that between thee and me.” 

“No word, it is true. Words are for those 
who seek knowledge; but having gained it, 
wherefore veil its holy light with the cloud of 
speech? Thou knewest well that I loved thee; 
but well I knew the time of love had not come 
to thee, therefore I was content to wait. But 
what do I say? Nay, I thought the time had 
come to thee ! I thought my heart thine open 
book, and its reading thy delight. But man has 
two mysteries, the events that are hidden behind 
the curtain of the future, and the thoughts that 
lie behind a maiden’s brow.” 

“Herbert,” said Petonilla, “if there is for 
thee a mystery behind my brow, ask it away, 
and all my thoughts and hopes, to their utmost 
bound, will lie open before thee.” 

Then he said: “On the day of the great 


9 6 


GARCILASO 


tournament, when I lifted thy colors from the 
dust, and did fight for them, and did kneel to 
thee for to be crowned, wherefore didst thou 
shrink away?” 

“Alas, dear my lord! I thought thee false 
to Korah and to me. Oh, why dost thou com- 
pel me to speak these words?” 

“Thou didst me a cruel wrong, Petonilla. ” 

“Alas — ” I heard her weeping. 

The German spoke, and he seemed as cold 
and heartless as a man of ice. “Make good that 
wrong, Petonilla. Sue my forgiveness.” 

There was a pause, and then she said: “And 
must I ask thee in so many words, Herbert, to 
forgive? Is all that I have said in vain? What! 
Canst thou desire me to humble myself more 
than I am humbled?” 

“I desire it,” he said, utterly unmoved. Oh, 
how in his place I would have taken Petonilla 
in my arms ! My blood boiled in a fury against 
that insolent German. My hand sought my 
sword. 

“Hark!” said Petonilla. 

“It was nothing,” said Herbert. 

There was a pause, and then I heard her 


THE GREAT CONFLAGRATION 


97 


voice, tremulous and low: “Good my lord, I 
humbly beg thee to forgive me for that I doubted 
thy goodness and fidelity. Thy pardon I im- 
plore, for in my thought I did thee a grievous 
wrong, without full certainty of a right to doubt 
thine honor. So I pray thee take me back once 
more in thy regard, and as thou didst kneel to 
me for my favor that day, I kneel to thee this 
night for no less a cause.” 

If I could have seen her there in the dust, 
humiliated and dejected, I fear me much my 
blade would have found a German heart. But 
in the gloom I could see not so much as the pale 
blur of her face. Now I heard the German 
speak : 

“Petonilla, where is thy hand? Here. 
Knowest thou this object? It is the faded and 
worn wreath, which my heart has kept warm 
since it left thy fingers to fall upon the ground. 
Take it, Petonilla, and crown me now. Crown 
me thy knight, thy cavalier, thy true lover. 
Rise, Petonilla; thy petition is all granted. Rise 
and crown me, and be this a token that thou 
hast crowned me with thy love.” 

Scarcely had the words left his lips when a 


GARCILASO 


sudden and blinding glare shone forth upon the 
night. As in an instant — it seemed incredible, 
the result of an evil word of enchantment — the 
queen’s pavilion shot up a great sheet of flame. 
At the same moment a neighboring silken tent 
blazed fiercely. Other fires shone forth. In the 
white light that flooded the ravine I saw Petonilla 
standing, and Herbert kneeling at her feet. She 
held the withered wreath in her hands, but her 
face was turned toward the raging fire, and terror 
shone where love, perchance, had been banished. 
In an instant the air was rent with wild screams, 
frantic tramping of frenzied horses, and hoarse, 
quick calls. This was that terrible conflagration 
which destroyed in a short time all the beautiful 
but unsubstantial city of silk. 

You must often have read of that dreadful fire, 
which as in a moment wrecked the harvest of 
years; how precious stuffs passed away in smoke, 
and gold and silver melted in ruinous waste; 
how the flames leaped to the very heavens; and 
how the walls of distant Granada were crowned 
by myriad heads, as awakened Moors looked 
across the Vega, and stared dumb and motion- 
less, not knowing what to think. Yes, there 


THE GREAT CONFLAGRATION 


l 99 


may be books printed which have no mention of 
Garcilaso (such as a dictionary I wot of, by one 
Karl Reuchlin — a work of ignorance, prejudice, 
and partiality), but no book telling of those days 
omits the chance of a chapter upon the burning 
of the city of tents. 

I thought not of my property endangered, for 
I was an outlaw, whose very right of life was 
forfeited because I had aided a heretic. Her- 
bert and Petonilla did not see me. They turned 
from that scene of confusion and terror, and 
sped away, her hand in his. Soon other forms 
darted beside them, and they were lost in a crowd 
of men and women fleeing from the fire. Rider- 
less horses thundered by, and wagons, driven 
recklessly, rattled down the ravines, and groaned 
at the steep ascents. The lash of the whip, the 
clatter of ill-adjusted armor, the shrill and eager 
voices, made one’s blood thrill with the excite- 
ment that leaps within when a great fire turns 
night to day, that the earth may see the ruin it 
is effecting. 

I fled from that scene — from that conflagra- 
tion, the cause of which was never known. I 
joined the panic-stricken multitude, and by them 


200 


GARCILASO 


was borne far over the Vega. But when I 
thought to separate myself from the rest and 
seek a hiding-place, behold, three men were 
behind me, and not by accident! Yes, I had 
been followed ! They laid their hands upon me. 
The thought of the Inquisition made me desper- 
ate, and one of them fell at my feet. But the 
other two threw themselves upon me, and I was 
borne to the ground. I saw the face of Father 
Pedro, then saw no more, for a blackness fell 
upon my brain. And when I came back to the 
world, it was in a dream, for I thought I saw 
Petonilla. And I thought she, with her own 
dear hands, was laying a wreath upon my head — 
no faded garland, but a circlet of fragrant and 
dewy flowers. I tried to reach forth my arms 
to her, but I could not. And so I awoke, and 
knew that I was bound hand and foot, a prisoner 
of the Inquisition. 


CHAPTER XV 

PRISONERS OF THE INQUISITION 

Alas, and alas! Not for the brow of Garcilaso 
was that fresh and dewy garland of his dreams. 
Not for him was the tender care of Petonilla. 

For behold, I found myself tossed to and fro 
in a rude wagon, my hands and feet bound 
securely, a cloth tied across my mouth lest I cry 
out. A white tent-cloth lay over me so those 
who passed could not see within the wagon, 
or know what manner of burden it carried. 
Through the covering I saw a dull red glow, and 
that was from the fire. So I was driven, with 
never a word, forward and forward through the 
gloom. I saw the red glow dying away, whereby 
I knew I was faring far from the camp; and I 
saw yet more clearly, though not with bodily 
eye, the grim towers, the relentless walls, of the 
Inquisition. How long my journey lasted I 
know not, nor do I clearly remember what hap- 
pened on the way. I think my faculties had 
been blunted by some powerful drug. 


201 


202 


GARCILASO 


At last we came to the Inquisition, and I was 
bestowed in a dark dungeon, and the world 
knew it not. For there was evidence to show 
(and this was by the subtlety of Father Pedro) 
that I had met my death in the flames of my 
tent. So all who knew me mourned for me as 
dead. Thus I lost the place, and it was no small 
one, that I had held in the world. 

What torture was mine as I lay in that slimy 
keep. For my thoughts were not with me, they 
were with Petonilla. Ah, what had been her 
fate? How could Herbert, a mere German, 
deliver her, when I, a Spaniard and a hidalgo, 
had been outwitted by a priest? Could he hope, 
with his slow mind and cold heart, to hide my 
darling, that marvel of beauty, Dona Petonilla — 
could he hide her from the vigilance of all Spain? 
He was but a German, a reader, a man of 
thought. Nay, even now, so I mused, he must 
be a captive. Perchance he lieth in this very 
castle; it may be he is in a dungeon next to 
mine. And Petonilla? She is so beautiful, how 
may she hide? For all the world has eyes, and 
is looking for a pretty face. All the world? 
Ay, more; the Inquisition which rules the world, 


PRISONERS OF THE INQUISITION 203 


it has demanded her body that it may redeem 
her soul. Has Father Pedro found her yet? 
Has he laid his hand upon her and claimed her 
for his victim, that heresy may receive a wound 
and God an honor? Is she indeed in his hands? 

You will say there is no agony like the agony 
of the rack. But I tell you there is no torture 
like the torture of fear to a helpless mind. I 
lay for days in that dungeon without food or 
drink. My strength wasted away. In my fever- 
ish dreams I heard only the ripple of cool waters. 
But worse than all was the fear that Petonilla — 
nay, fear checked the thought that fear had 
started into being. 

At last the day came when I stood before my 
judges. I was commanded to confess. 

“What shall I confess ?” asked Garcilaso. 
He was startled at the sound of his voice, it was 
so weak, so little worthy the spirit of a brave 
knight. He stood blinking in the sudden glare 
of light, a miserable figure, helpless save for his 
will of iron. 

The holy men consulted their papers. Then 
the zealous Inquisitor-General, that keen sword 
in the hand of the blessed church, that man of 


204 


GARCILASO 


wrath who let loose the vengeance of God upon 
all heretics whenever they lifted up their horns — 
he, Thomas de Torquemada, asked this ques- 
tion, “ Where is she?” 

“Who?” asked Garcilaso. But his heart sang 
within him, as sings heaven-born gratitude, born 
with so sweet a voice it hath no need to learn 
the notes of music. 

“Thou hast been accused,” said he. “Clear 
thyself.” 

“Of what have I been accused?” inquired 
Garcilaso. 

“So thou art obdurate?” he said, coldly. 

“Nay, my Lord President, I pray thee state 
my crime, that I may know how to defend myself. ’ ’ 

“Truth,” said he — “truth and virtue need 
not to be shown how to defend themselves. 
Then thou art guilty?” 

“Nay, my lord; I am a true Catholic.” 

“A true Catholic, prisoner?” 

“Ay, by the Blessed Virgin!” and he said 
the Credo. 

“Thou hast concealed a heretic,” he said, 
never showing the least passion in his tones. 

“Not I, my lord; never have I done so.” 


PRISONERS OF THE INQUISITION 205 


“Then thou wilt not give her up?” 

“Sir, I know not where any heretic may be.” 

“It is thy purpose, then, to adhere to thine 
obstinacy?” 

Garcilaso was in despair at this coldness, this 
merciless contempt. “I pray thee state mine 
offense, Seftor President, that I may show thee 
how false it is. Never have I hidden any heretic, 
and never have I been untrue to my faith.” 

“Prisoner, why art thou here?” he demanded. 

“Father Pedro brought me.” 

“Ah! So thou knowest thine accuser? Well, 
then, dost thou accuse him of falsehood? Dost 
thou charge thy father confessor with conspi- 
racy?” 

“I accuse him of nothing,” said Garcilaso. 

“How then?” said Torquemada; “either thou 
accusest him of a lie, or admittest that he hath 
accused thee with truth.” 

“Alas! Senor President, I know not what he 
hath said against me; I know not if he be true.” 

“So thou art guilty, prisoner?” 

“My lord, who is not guilty before God? 
But I am guilty of nothing against the Inqui- 
sition, and against the church.” 


206 


GARCILASO 


“In a word, then, thou wilt not give her up?” 

“If thou speakest of a heretic, Seftor, I swear 
to thee by the Holy Cross, that I do not know 
where a single heretic is, man or woman, in the 
whole world.” 

“Dost thou not know where Petonilla is?” 

“I do not.” 

“Dost thou not know where she intended to 
go?” 

“I do not, by St. James.” 

“Dost thou not know who bare her away 
upon his horse, the night of the great confla- 
gration?” 

Garcilaso said no word. Torquemada turned 
to his familiars. “The torture,” he said. 

They dragged me into another room — a slimy, 
horrible place, the floor stained with blood. The 
air was hideous with screams, for there were 
three Jews being tortured all at the same time, 
in different ways. And I too was tortured, 
but never a sound escaped my lips. So at last 
I fainted, and I was unbound, and the iron cap 
unscrewed from about my head. The familiars 
dragged me back before Torquemada, who sat 
as impassive as a man of stone. 


PRISONERS OF THE INQUISITION 207 


“Wilt thou confess?” he asked, not raising 
his voice. 

“As touching what?” I asked. He did not 
hear me, for my voice seemed to have been 
crushed within me in the agony. 

“Prisoner, thou knowest who carried Petonilla 
away. Who was it? Speak, and save thyself!” 

I made no answer. 

“Speak, prisoner, and thou shalt have thy 
freedom. Speak, and thou shalt feel no more 
pain. Speak, tell his name, the knight’s name, 
the heretic’s name; for since he saved a heretic, 
he is a heretic. ” 

I was silent. 

The Inquisitor-General turned to his servants. 
“The torture,” he said; “and see that ye do 
your work better.” 

Now when for the second time I was tor- 
tured, it was not long before a great scream 
burst from my throat, though I had thought to 
die before I would cry out. But flesh would not 
bear more. Yet again I refused to tell who had 
delivered Petonilla. Then I was taken to 
another dungeon, and here there was a lamp 
burning; and I was suffered to sink upon the 


208 


GARCILASO 


ground, while the familiars left me. I was not 
alone, for an old man lay upon the naked earth 
shivering with the cold ; and he was completely 
stripped of his clothing. He raised his haggard 
face and gave me a searching look. His body 
was horrible from wounds, and his limbs were 
broken. He was chained by one arm to the 
wall, and before him was a plate of fresh food ; 
but it was just beyond his reach. For a while I 
could think only of my own sufferings; for 
though I have disdained to describe the mode 
of my torture, and the agonies I experienced, 
yet I would have you know that they were all 
I could have borne, else should I have been tor- 
tured a third time. But at last my pain seemed 
to grow numb, as if the flesh had become dead 
to pain, and then I looked sadly upon the naked 
and broken old man. 

“I know not who thou art,” said I, '‘but 
thou art cold, and I can give thee warmth.” So 
saying, I took from me my cloak, and dragged 
myself to him upon my hands. I could not 
stand ; for my feet were swollen. Then a voice, 
a clear, cold voice, was heard in the chamber, 
saying, ‘ ‘ He is a Jew! ’ ’ 


PRISONERS OF THE INQUISITION 209 


I looked above, and on every side, but I 
could not tell whence the voice had come. And 
I looked at the old man and shuddered, for he 
was a heretic, and did scorn the Blessed Jesus, 
and I knew that not for him were the delights of 
heaven. I thought how he was an enemy of 
God, and how the blessed Pope had commanded 
us to shun and hate all such. So I folded my 
cloak about me and drew back. 

The old man had never taken his eyes from 
my face, and now I noticed how they burned. 
He spoke, saying, ‘ ‘ Garcilaso ! ’ * 

I was amazed that he knew me. 

“ Garcilaso,” said he — and weak and shivering 
as he was, his voice rang loud and strong — “God 
is good, and he has permitted me to see thee 
here before I die !” 

“Who art thou, who art thou, old Jew?” I said. 

“I am Korah; and it was thou, it was thou, 
Sir Knight, who delivered me up to the inquisi- 
tors. It is thou whom I must thank for all my 
misery. For worse than this I thank thee! 
For thou it was who didst reveal where my three 
daughters were hid, woe is me! And now they 
are the sport and the shame of Christians. I 


210 


GARCILASO 


thank thee, Garcilaso! But, thank God, I have 
seen thy sufferings, I have seen thy captivity! 
Now I can die!” 

The horror of it came upon me, and, “God 
forgive me,” I cried, “that I gave thee up!” 

“He will not forgive thee, no, no, no; call 
not upon God, for he will not hear thee!” 

Now when I looked upon his sores and 
reflected that I had been the cause of them, it 
seemed that I could not remember he was a 
heretic, for the thought slipped from me. And 
thinking of his daughters, I remembered Peto- 
nilla. I crawled to where he lay. “Poor old 
man,” said I, “for every wound upon thy body 
I could weep — ah, wretched Garcilaso! I know 
thou canst not forgive me, and having no right 
to ask it, I ask not thy forgiveness. Hate me, 
poor Korah, for thy sake, and for thy daughters’ 
sake, but suffer me to wrap my cloak about 
thee.” And I did, for his shuddering was piti- 
ful to see. He turned his eyes away, nor would 
he look upon me, but the warmth that came to 
him from my garment he could not reject, for 
his spirit was stronger than his poor body. The 
cloak came below his knees, but his feet, bloody 


PRISONERS OF THE INQUISITION 21 1 


and torn, were cold like ice. And I took them 
and put them in my bosom, and folded my arms 
about them ; and he did not seek to draw back. 
And presently, indeed, he turned his head and 
looked to where I lay, and said he, “Why dost 
thou treat me thus, after giving me over to 
Torquemada?” 

“I am a different man from what I was that 
day, Korah; I am a different man, for I have 
suffered.” 

“And why hast thou, a proud Spaniard, 
suffered? What hast thou done, to receive thy 
just punishment?” 

“It is but this, Korah, that I will not tell 
who has carried Petonilla away to safety.” 

Again that mysterious voice sounded in the 
chamber, “ Garcilaso , beware /” 

“And never will I reveal the name of Peto- 
nilla’s hero!” I cried out; “never, never, for 
first will I perish at the stake! Torture cannot 
wring my secret from me! Thank God, Korah, 
thank God! Petonilla is safe. And though I 
did not hide her, nor have anything to do with 
her rescue, by St. James! I will not betray the 
one who saved her.” 


212 


GARCILASO 


“Is it so?” asked the old man, in a changed 
voice. “Is it so, and thou a Christian?” 

“In so far I am a rebel to the church,” I 
said. “But let it be. The church never par- 
dons, but I am weak, I am but what I am. God 
who made me knoweth mine imperfections, and 
if he made me amiss, he will not expect from me 
perfect works. By my soul, Korah, I believe 
there is no room in hell for a heart that hath 
shown mercy; and though I must groan in 
Purgatory a thousand years for thee and for 
Petonilla, I swear I will not reveal who stole her 
away, and I swear before all the saints (let them 
make of it what they may) that I will love thee 
as far as thou mayest permit.” 

“Why, now, Garcilaso,” said he, “love me, 
I pray thee, if thou art able. But can a Chris- 
tian love a Jew?” 

“Not as a Christian and not as a Jew,” I 
answered. “And I know not how, but in some 
wise I find that I can love thee. For would I 
hold thy feet at my breast if I despised thee? 
But, Korah, here is food; art thou not hungry?” 

“Garcilaso, I starve,” said he. Then I pushed 
the plate close beside him. 


PRISONERS OF THE INQUISITION 213 


For the third time that mysterious voice 
sounded in our ears, and now I perceived that 
it came through an opening in the ceiling : 
‘ * Garcilaso , if thou givest food to the heretic , 
never shalt thou taste food again /” 

Then Korah made for to push it from him, 
but I bade him eat, and I said we two could 
starve together; as for me, I could not taste a 
morsel, for my agony was still too great for 
hunger. After he had eaten, and after some 
time had passed, we grew to become friends. 
And I told him of my love for Petonilla, and 
how she had shown a kind spirit to me, and how 
I had been her favorite at court. Then Korah 
so far forgave what I had done to him and his, 
that he hoped I might yet escape with my life, 
and marry the beautiful one. He told me in a 
whisper about Petonilla, and how he had become 
acquainted with her. 

Petonilla’ s parents had been killed in Pied- 
mont by good Christians who had gone thither 
to exterminate the Vaudois, and who had slain 
every man, woman, and child that fell into their 
hands. But by miraculous events (if heretics are 
ever aided by miracles) Petonilla escaped, wander- 


214 


GARCILASO 


ing and hiding in caves with some of her people, 
sleeping in the open, and going about in dis- 
guise. When it came to pass that all her friends 
and acquaintances had either become scattered 
over the face of the earth, or had been stabbed 
and burnt and crucified (for the honor of God 
and the Blessed Virgin), Petonilla fell in with 
Korah and his three daughters. They came 
with her to Spain, and in order to escape detec- 
tion the three daughters were left at Madrid, 
and Petonilla (preteijding to be Korah’s only 
child) arrived at Seville. Now there was a family 
at court to whom Petonilla was related, and 
when they learned that all her family, with their 
evil doctrines, had been destroyed, they agreed 
to introduce Petonilla to court, hoping she would 
mature into a true Christian. The name of this 
Spanish family I will not disclose, seeing it 
would be to their shame to reveal their kinship 
to such people. Korah whispered me this, and 
much more; for in helping Petonilla to get out 
of Italy they had run many narrow escapes, so 
that it warmed one's blood to hear. And were 
this the story of Petonilla, instead of being the 


PRISONERS OF THE INQUISITION 215 


history of Garcilaso, I could set forth many a 
wild and stirring chapter! 

I shall not linger in my account of the Inqui- 
sition. Enough to say that Korah and I starved 
together, and that we became as shadows 
Enough to say that I was tortured again, and yet 
again, but would not speak the name of Herbert 
Klein. For I knew from their persistence that no 
suspicions had fallen upon him ; and I discovered 
from certain words that Father Pedro dropped 
that Herbert was living at Santa Fe as openly 
and as safely as another. Now Father Pedro 
came to see me, pretending to love me, and he 
urged me to betray Petonilla’s friend. He drew 
all his arguments from religion, and I knew they 
were true, and that I was displeasing God and 
my church and my king. But I could not tell. 
And when he left me in a fury, it seemed that I 
cared not. And when I was excommunicated, 
it was as if my soul had become so scared by 
grief that it could not feel another pain. It was 
all for Petonilla, it was all for my love. I was 
willing to give my life for her, to suffer the rack 
and the stake ; I was content to die without the 


21 6 


GARCILASO 


extreme unction, and to enter unshrived the 
fearful beyond, trusting to God’s mercy against 
the commands of the church. More I could not 
do; more man could not do for a woman. 

The day was set at last for the auto da ft, the 
execution. Korah and I were to be burned on 
the same day. Poor Jew, what had he to look 
forward to, seeing there was no future life, no 
happiness in store for him, seeing that he died 
for no cause save that he would not retract his 
miserable and false religion! For he had no 
saint to call upon, no Blessed Virgin to speak a 
word in his behalf, no merciful Savior. And 
what had I to sustain me? True, I was awed by 
the fearful thought that the church held me 
damned, that I could not confess, that I could 
not sacrifice the Holy Mass. But I kept think- 
ing that the church (which cannot err) might be 
mistaken about my damnation, so inconsistent 
is man! But what had I to uphold me? Ah, 
my love for Petonilla! And I was glad, yes, my 
heart sang within me, that I could die for her, and 
dying save her — save her from a horrible fate. 
No matter the agonies of my death, no matter 
my shame; with these I bought her freedom. 


PRISONERS OF THE INQUISITION 217 

The day dawned, the morning of the auto da 
ft. But before I pass to the strange events of 
that day, I would be understood on what I have 
already written — I mean as touching the Inqui- 
sition. God forbid that any word of mine should 
be considered as spoken in reproach against an 
institution of the church. For how could we 
have done, with the country overrun with Jews, 
if we had not had a way to put an end to thou- 
sands of them yearly? For their heresy would 
have spread, and the brightness of the holy 
church would have become clouded o’er. Nay, 
many a stubborn Jew was converted into a loyal 
Catholic who would have died a Jew without the 
light that the torture shed upon the subject. 
And while my own sufferings in the Inquisition 
were so terrible that I have passed over them in 
the silence of a lofty scorn — for were my tortures 
all recounted, well might the reader lay down 
this book in horror, nor take it up again (which 
ought not to be) — still, well I know the Inqui- 
sition was a great blessing. Was? Nay, is, 
to-day, under our glorious master King Philip. 
For the fear of it keeps orthodox many a man; 
and the stress of its tortures puts out the light 


2l8 


GARCILASO 


of many a false teacher and deceiver and wilful 
reader of the blessed Word. So much lest I 
be misunderstood. And now let us pass at 
once to the day appointed for the burning of 
Garcilaso. 


CHAPTER XVI 

TO BE BURNED AT THE STAKE 

Doubtless you have witnessed many an auto 
da fL As for me, I have been present at none 
save mine own, and, by my troth, that one gave 
me a disrelish for all others — just and holy though 
they be. On the fatal day appointed for the 
executions, I was driven with the rest into the 
assembly-room on the first floor of the Inqui- 
sition; and as for the town in which all this 
great while I had been tortured and starved, it 
was Guadaloupe. Since the day I placed food 
within the reach of the old Jew, food had been 
denied us both, so the warning was a true warn- 
ing. Now Korah was unchained from the wall; 
and being quite unable to walk, or so much as 
to stand upon his feet, for both legs were broken 
in several places, he was dragged along the stone 
floor and up the steps of stone; and he was 
naked. As for his groans, they pleased the 
familiars, for he was a Jew destined to be 
“relaxed”; that is to say, burned. 


219 


220 


GARCILASO 


In the assembly-room were crowded those 
who were to take a place — for the most part a 
dejected one — in the procession to the stake. 
Shall I ever forget how my ears were assailed by 
the discordant clashing of jeers and moans, 
taunts and laments? What misery was there, 
what faces pinched by the iron fingers of pain, 
what dark despair and unrelieved longings ! 
There were in all fifty prisoners of the church, 
but only ten — of which number I was one — con- 
demned to a disgraceful and lingering death. 
The remaining forty had become “reconciled”; 
that is to say, they had given over their hereti- 
cal doctrines to Satan, whence they had sprung, 
and they had embraced the Catholic religion. The 
rich Jews had given up all their treasures, con- 
tent to become miserable beggars so that they 
preserved life in their bodies. Even those con- 
verts who had no ransom to give were shown 
mercy, being merely sentenced to imprisonment 
during life. 

In all that number I was the only Spaniard, 
the only one born in the true faith. But my 
appearance attracted no peculiar attention, for 
I was changed indeed. Accustomed from my 


TO BE BURNED AT THE STAKE 


221 


youth to rich and gay attire, ever scrupulously 
neat and shining in splendid armor, or else luxu- 
rious in long silken robes — I, who had been one 
of the proudest grandees of Old Castile — I, Gar- 
cilaso de la Vega — there I stood, my livid 
wounds exposed to the gaze of all, my face over- 
run with a straggling beard, my locks wild and 
matted, my eyes red and desperate. The ten 
who were to be “ relaxed” had been stripped 
naked, as if they were no longer human beings 
with a sense of shame; and some of the Jews 
who had been converted joined with the holy 
men in jeering at our horrid plight. What a 
sight our bodies did present, scarred, bruised, 
disjointed, broken! Not one was there who had 
more strength than just enough to drag one foot 
after the other. As for me, I could scarce stand, 
not from shame at my position, though indeed 
my spirit was well-nigh broken, but because 
of the ill the rack had done me, and the terrible 
weakness of starvation. 

Then the familiars came with the shameful 
robes of the condemned, and we were clothed in 
them from neck to ankle. But the blessed 
church, even at the last moment, holds forth a 


222 


GARCILASO 


hope of salvation. For my nine companions 
were pressed to renounce their heathenish super- 
stitions, and I was urged yet again to declare 
Petonilla’s rescuer, that a clew to her where- 
abouts might be furnished. But Korah and his 
brethren, in their blind ignorance and useless 
obstinacy, refused to embrace the pure doctrines 
of the church. And I laughed at their com- 
mands, and so, in resisting the temptation, found 
strength. Now one of the ten who were con- 
demned to death was a woman, and her hair 
was gray. How long she had been in the power 
of the priests, or whether she had once been fair 
and sweet, or what treatment she had endured, 
God knows. But she would not kiss the 
crucifix. 

The procession was formed. At its head 
went the Inquisitor-General, Torquemada, bear- 
ing a lovely crucifix. His robes were black, as 
were those of all the priests and familiars. High 
dignitaries of the church helped to swell the 
imposing train. They bare banners on which 
were holy words of warning and pious prayer and 
the blessed cross. And as they marched along, 
their feet upon the ground, though they were 


TO BE BURNED AT THE STAKE 223 


so high and holy, their feet treading the dust — 
their bare feet, as if they had been lowly men — 
there arose a solemn chant, sung in the blessed 
Latin, and it moved the hearts of the onlookers 
with awe and admiration. Behind those high 
prelates in their sacerdotal robes and their naked 
feet treading in the dust, as I have said, behind 
them came the forty Jews who were to be recon- 
ciled, and after them the ten doomed wretches, 
among whom was Garcilaso. Those ten were 
dressed in coarse woolen garments of a bright 
yellow color. Nay, you must ’know them well, 
those odious garments, the san benitos , hanging 
from the neck below the knees. Upon those 
yellow robes were embroidered, even as you see 
them to-day, great crosses, of the length of the 
garment ; and there were at least a dozen figures 
to each robe — figures of horrid devils, having 
horns, having hoofs, having forked tongues. 
Also there did appear lurid flames, with painted 
smoke curling upward into a painted sky. Now 
so it was that those Jews who had despised the 
cross in life were destined to carry that cross to 
their death. And the flames and devils excited 
the scorn and hatred of the spectators — for the 


224 


GARCILASO 


sides of the streets, the doors and the windows, 
were thronged. 

Korah, being unable to walk, was borne along 
in a litter, and just behind him I made shift to 
drag my trembling limbs, though the agony of 
each step was enough to cause a less resolute 
man to sink in a swoon. But I was upheld by 
that will of steel whereof I have before made 
mention. Yea, I was supported by the thought 
that all this pain was for the lady of my love; 
that for her sake I was laying down my life. 
And I was willing. For whom else would I 
have undergone this degradation, to say nothing 
of the approaching execution? For whom else 
but Petonilla? Ah, her image danced before my 
feverish eyes, her tones, so soft and clear, yet 
rang louder for me than the tumult of the 
street, than the chant of the choristers. Would 
it have been easy to cry out that it was Her- 
bert Klein de Metz who had stolen her away? 
Herbert lived at court; he was unsuspected; 
since the night of the great conflagration he 
had been seen every day by my former com- 
panions; so Father Pedro had disclosed, not 
knowing he was giving me a reason for silence. 


TO BE BURNED AT THE STAKE 225 


Well, if I cried out the truth, it would be 
believed, and Herbert would be immured in the 
dungeon, to suffer what I had suffered. And 
from the history of his past days suspicion 
would trace out the whereabouts of Petonilla. 
And would it have been easy to cry out the 
simple truth? It would have been a thing im- 
possible! And before Garcilaso speaks the fate 
of a friend, may his tongue be palsied and 
his life stricken from his body! Then could I 
do nothing? Why not cry forth who I was (for 
no man suspected my identity, save the inquisi- 
tors who knew)? Why not recount what I had 
done for the king, how I had saved his life, how 
I had torn Ave Maria fr6m the steed of Yarfe 
the Moor — ay, from the tail of Yarfe’s horse? 
For what good? I would be met with the ques- 
tions: “Where is Petonilla?” “Who carried 
her away?” So I tottered forward; and while 
my companions in misery gave vent to heart- 
rending cries, the thought of my love slew the 
groan upon my lips. 

It chanced that upon that day King Ferdi- 
nand was in Guadaloupe, and why, I knew not ; 
for was it for me to know the whys of kings? 


226 


GARCILASO 


Nay; I know now how he happened to be 
there, but then I thought nothing of it. Know- 
ing that there was to be an auto da ft, he sent 
his royal guard to escort the prisoners ; not 
that he apprehended any attempt 'at a rescue, 
for who was there in Spain dared breathe a word 
against the true and only religion? Nay; it was 
to show honor to the Blessed Virgin, who is 
mightily comforted by such processions and 
burnings. I learned in after days (therefore the 
discovery hath no rightful place here, however 
I set it forth where I please, for this whole 
book is mine from first to last, and I have 
written it with my own hand), I learned, I 
say, that the king sent his royal guard at its 
captain’s suggestion. Now you should know, 
for I have told you this more times than one, 
that the captain was old Hernando Perez del 
Pulgar. 

We had not gone far upon our way, though 
my agony counted every step a mile, when I 
saw the guard riding to join us. And at their 
head rode old Pulgar, recovered from his 
wounds. The guard closed in our rear, so that 
it was Pulgar upon his horse who came just 


TO BE BURNED AT THE STAKE 


227 


behind me. A quick glance had taken in his 
grizzled and austere head, but if he knew me he 
made no sign. Nay, there was no hope that he 
knew me; for all my friends believed I had met 
death in the great conflagration. Yet, though 
it was his right to be there, and though as a good 
Catholic he should take a pious joy in the tor- 
ments of the Jews, I could not keep my blood 
from boiling at his nearness; for I remembered 
how all my sufferings were through him; that 
he had made Petonilla write that fatal letter; 
that he had brought to light the fact that she 
was a heretic. I say not I was right to blame 
him, I only say I blamed. 

As we passed along, teaching the multitude 
the blessing of a secure and unquestioning faith 
by our precept and example, my rage against 
Pulgar bore me up, so that I became strong, and 
would have advanced a bit to walk beside 
Korah’s litter instead of behind it, so he could 
see my face, and find some comfort. For has 
the world such another comfort as the face of a 
friend? But it could not be, for I had done all 
I was able before, and these few extra steps 
brought on a woeful weakness and an excru- 


228 


GARCILASO 


ciating agony, so that at last a cry burst from my 
throat, and I reeled and would have fallen ; but 
two hands caught my arm, and I was steadied 
upon my swollen feet. And I looked down to 
see who had done me this service ; and it was 
the woman with the gray hair; the woman who 
had yet a little strength for another; the woman 
who did not find her shortened life too brief for 
an act of mercy. Now God’s blessings upon 
that simple soul! And though all the world 
curse her, in that she was a heretic and would 
not kiss the crucifix, if God and I do join in 
blessing her, is she without hope? For he knows 
I am a loyal Catholic, and I know he is God, so 
he can bless even a Jew. 

It so chanced that one of the men who bare 
Korah’s litter stumbled and let fall his burden, 
so that the old Jew was rolled out upon the 
stones of the street. And the multitude of 
pious men and women who lined the way gave 
vent to a cry of derision, both at the awkward 
familiar and at the miserable old man. But I 
bent over Korah, and I would have lifted him up 
in my arms, but indeed my strength was not 
enough for one — alas and alas for him who hath 


TO BE BURNED AT THE STAKE 229 


not strength enough for a friend! and, “Cour- 
age, comrade,” said I. 

He sought my face with glad eyes, for he had 
grown to love me, and he said, “Ever near me, 
Garcilaso ! My friend, thou art in heart a very 
Jew!” 

“Korah,” said I, as they dragged him back 
upon his litter, “if I ever see God, I will tell 
him thou art in heart a Christian!” 

Then they thrust me back*, so that we could 
not have even this consolation of intimate speech. 
Then it was that from a side street rode up a 
company of horse. I saw Ponce de Leon, I saw 
Gonsalvo. But more than all, I saw Herbert 
Klein the German. Why was he here? Did 
he suspect my presence, or did he share the 
belief that I had met death in the conflagration? 
I was not long in doubt; for as he paused with 
his company to let us pass, so that he might 
join Pulgar and the royal guard, he looked me 
full in the face, and laid his finger upon his lip. 

So he knew me, knew me even in my wretched 
dress. And if he knew me, he must have 
expected to find me here. And Pulgar? I looked 
back, and caught his eye. He also! And Ponce 


230 


GARCILASO 


de Leon? Yes, he knew, too! Was Herbert 
here, fearing I might weaken at the last and 
betray him? Was he here to force me, by his 
presence, to be true to Petonilla? Then I liked 
him not; for why else should he come? To see 
me die? As for Ponce, I knew him my enemy, 
yet even this gloating upon my misfortunes I 
had thought far from his nature. Nay, I knew 
not what to think. But I bare myself as stern 
and cold, as impassive and erect, as lay in my 
feeble power. 

At last the procession halted. And there in 
full view was a platform built of hewn stones; 
and upon it stakes were set ; and about those 
stakes were faggots disposed, ready to be drawn 
close together, and to give forth slow and linger- 
ing flames. The stones were blackened where 
there had been a many goodly fire, and where a 
many Jew had paid his life for his folly. As we 
paused, the Latin chant ended, to see if the 
Blessed Virgin would grant a miracle. For only 
ten years ago, in this very city, at this very 
spot, one Dr. Francis Sanctos de la Fuente 
(donate a candle for the repose of his soul !) did 
act as scribe during an auto da ft; and the 


TO BE BURNED AT THE STAKE 23 


good doctor did seek to set down in writing the 
miracles of Our Lady as they came aboute But 
the Blessed Virgin was so extravagant and 
crowded her miracles so quick together that the 
scribe was compelled to give over in despair, 
after he had set down some sixty. But upon 
the present occasion Our Lady did not send one- 
sixtieth of that number, for she did not send a 
single one, as ever I wot of. Howbeit, if there 
be any record of this day laying a credit of 
miracles thereto, and if such record be authen- 
ticated by the church, then I can only say 
that such miracles as came to pass ’scaped my 
eyes. 

We had come to a stand in a narrow street, 
and upon the right was the grim wall of an old 
castle, with windows high above our heads, but 
with no doors opening toward us, for a huge 
entrance had been walled up with bricks. Upon 
the left side of this same street were shops and 
low trafficking-places for common merchants. 
Now the concourse of inhabitants who had lined 
the way as we proceeded had been forced in 
this street,, on account of its narrowness, to fall 
behind the royal guard, so that we made a long 


232 


GARCILASO 


and impressive procession, though I took no 
pleasure therein. 

While we stood, giving our Blessed Virgin 
Mary time to grant a miracle, if it were in her 
gracious purpose so to pleasure us, on a sudden 
a loud cry came from over the way where a cer- 
tain cheese-monger’s stood ; and the cry was this : 
“Garcilaso! To the rescue of the good knight!” 

When I heard that cry I was all in a maze, 
as knowing not what to think, but deeming it 
the strangest thing that had ever taken place. 
As for the familiars of the Holy Inquisition, 
they rushed thither to ferret out the sacrilegious 
man who had dared to disturb the ceremonies. 
And Torquemada and the holy men faced about 
from the scaffold with its stakes, upon which 
they had been gladdening their holy eyes, and 
fiercely they demanded the person of this fanatic. 
The cheese-monger was dragged forward, and in 
terror he declared that he knew not who had 
uttered the cry, but a stranger had dashed into 
his shop, then out again, before he could hinder; 
and this low fellow did scream forth the Credo 
at the top of his voice, so fearful was he of being 
taken for a heretic. But he had not come to 


TO BE BURNED AT THE STAKE 233 


the end of it before that same powerful voice 
was heard, this time from the neighborhood of 
a merchant’s, crying: “Take courage, Gar- 
cilaso; thou shalt never die as a Jew!” 

A great excitement leaped from heart to heart 
at the name of Garcilaso. Where was he? The 
throng scanned each victim’s face. 

“What is this?” cried old Pulgar. “Trea- 
son! By my soul, my cavaliers, we are here to 
some purpose. Surround this Garcilaso. We 
will see if he find any rescue!” And my 
Lord Captain had like to have ridden me down, 
for he urged his prancing steed between me 
and the familiars, thus cutting me off from 
poor old Korah; and he crowded me close to 
the castle-wall. 

“Enough, enough, miserable old man!” I 
cried out. “I do not seek rescue. I am too 
weak to run.” 

“Guard him!” shouted the inquisitors. 
“And woe to those,” shouted Torquemada, 
“who dare lift a finger in his behalf. Forget 
that he is Garcilaso; remember that he is a 
heretic, guilty of heresy and apostasy, excom- 
municated from the holy church!” Then a 


234 


GARCILASO 


somber silence fell upon the throng, for many 
there had heard of Garcilaso’s deeds. 

“We will guard him, my Lord President!” 
cried Pulgar. “Up, brave knights, and withstand 
the onset!” Now there was no manner of onset, 
and no sign of a rescue save that one mysterious 
voice, and even it was to be heard no more. 
But Pulgar drew his line between me and my 
companions, and some of them sprang to the 
ground, and made a fence of iron on one side 
(they being in complete mail) and upon the other 
side was the castle- wall. And thus they remained 
motionless, looking across the way as if expect- 
ing a cavalcade to dash out of the shops and 
trafficking-places. The familiars seeing me thus 
in a safe position, made haste to give a thorough 
search for the owner of that heretical voice, and 
I cried to my Lord Captain: 

“Give over, Pulgar, give over this farce, and 
let me pass on to my death without further 
mockery!” 

“By my soul,” cried he, in a loud voice, “I 
know thy wiles, and thy valor, Garcilaso, and 
thou shalt not escape me. For thou art not safe 
till bound to yonder stake!” 


TO BE BURNED AT THE STAKE 


2 35 


‘ ‘Cruel and heartless knight !” cried I; “see 
how broken and like a shadow am I. I could 
not flee.” 

“I know not,” said he, disdainfully, “but 
one of those devils upon thy robe may spirit 
thee away!” I gave him a look, but he laughed 
me to scorn. And his knights continued to 
jostle and press me, until they got me before the 
entrance-place of the old castle, which, as I said 
before, had been walled up with brick. 

“I warned thee, Garcilaso,” croaked the old 
captain, tauntingly, “I warned thee of Petonilla 
and her wiles! Did I not bring thee her letter? 
Did I not cry me thy faithful friend? But out 
of church, out of the heart of Pulgar!” 

In loftiest disdain, I turned from him my 
eyes, and looked for Herbert. But he had 
ridden forward, so that he was at Torquemada’s 
side. He did not even turn to look at me. 
Alas! it did seem that all my friends had turned 
to hate me, or had driven my image from their 
minds. 

Now as I paused there, pressed close against 
the bricked-up entrance of the castle so that I 
could not stir, and while the knights stood so 


236 


GARCILASO 


close about me that I was hidden from all others, 
suddenly a marvelous thing happened ; but the 
Virgin had no finger in it. Now some of the 
bricks in that wall, near the ground, did seem to 
vanish, to melt, showing the black interior of the 
castle. Yes, there was a small square hole, and 
a cold breath came forth and smote me with 
fear. But scarce had I comprehended what I 
saw, when Ponce de Leon seized me and thrust 
me head first through the opening, which was 
immediately closed again. For this castle 
belonged to one of the great robber barons, and 
had a many quaint and curious mode of exit. 

Before I could take thought to my situation, 
I heard the shrill voice of Pulgar without in the 
street where I was not (St. James be praised !) and 
he cried : ‘ ‘ Garcilaso hath escaped ! He is gone ! 
Help, brave cavaliers! Help, Sefior Inquisitor- 
General Torquemada! Help, faithful Catholics! 
Garcilaso hath betaken himself hence!” 

Pulgar’s cries were at once taken up, then 
rang down the street. The royal guard broke 
up. They pretended to chase me across the 
street. ‘ 'There he goes !” cried one. “Where?” 
cried another. And, “No, not by that side.” 


TO BE BURNED AT THE STAKE 237 


And again, “The devil hath sent him a wondrous 
strength!” And another, “Where now is that 
weakness he so cunningly simulated?” But I 
think the onlookers were, for the most part, 
right glad, and they helped to distract attention 
with false bruits and untrue exclamations, such 
as “I saw him enter the baker’s shop,” and the 
like. So Pulgar led his men from shop to shop, 
and the inquisitors came after, and the common 
herd after them, so that all was confusion and 
turmoil, rage and execration. But as for the 
castle-wall, none thought of it, seeing that 
the windows were very high and barred with 
iron bars, and seeing that the knights swore 
upon their lives that I had nimbly slipped through 
their fingers. For I had wronged Ponce and 
Pulgar and the rest ; they were indeed my true 
friends. They had come that day to rescue me, 
or to make the attempt. For that reason Pulgar 
had persuaded the king hither, for that reason 
the royal guard had escorted us. For they 
would not see a brave knight, such as I, die the 
shameful death. Good Catholics were they, but 
they felt that there are other things in the world 
besides religion. 


238 


GARCILASO 


Now when I was thrust, without ceremony, 
through the wall, I fell sprawling upon a floor, 
and in the darkness knew not if I were even 
rescued past all harm. But soon a light was 
struck, and a torch flared forth, and I saw that 
I lay in a great vaulted hall, and that she who 
held the torch was Petonilla. 


CHAPTER XVII 

JUST PETONILLA AND I 

Yes, there she stood, the lady of my heart, 
holding in her gentle hand the torch whose light 
made more vast the extent of the great hall. 
For a moment I forgot my anguish and my 
helplessness. I forgot the tum*ult in the street. 
I forgot the shameful robe wherewith I was 
clothed. And so in some manner I made shift 
to stand upon my feet. 

Petonilla stood beside the wall, not far away, 
holding the end of a rope. She had drawn it 
taut, and this had closed up the opening in the 
wall, and had lowered a great pillow over the 
place, so that the light she held could not find 
its way through any crevice. Now the opening 
had been made by removing all but the outer 
layer of brick and stone, which layer was dis- 
posed upon a shelf that swung in or back again 
as the rope was drawn. It was an opening no 
wider than the breadth of a man’s shoulders, 
and not so high. This I learned afterwards, for 
239 


240 


GARCILASO 


at that time what recked I of openings? Peto- 
nilla, who had scarce glanced at me, set her torch 
in one of the sconces of the wall, and then 
indeed she turned toward me, and began to 
speak in a right hearty voice, saying, “My 
Lord Sefior Garcilaso — ’’ 

But never did she finish what she was about 
to say. For the sight of me, all broken, blood- 
stained, and famished, with my disgraceful yellow 
robe hanging about my naked legs, this sight, 
I say, had not once entered into her knowledge 
or imagination of life. I tried to speak, and her 
name died in a whisper upon my lips. She gave 
a strange cry ; it was a broken sob, charged with 
the thrill of terror and the music of compassion. 
She came to me, she ran swiftly, she thought 
not of herself. She came to me, she put her 
arms about my neck, yes, both of them. She 
put her arms about my neck and laid her head 
upon my shoulder, and she wept and sobbed. 
My God ! I have never heard any woman grieve 
and lament as grieved Petonilla. “For me!** 
I heard her say, in her broken tones; “for me /** 
It seemed to be to her a thought too wonderful, 
too pathetic for any thanks but tears. “For 


JUST PETONILLA AND I 


241 


me /” said she, and I could feel her arms draw 
closer about me, as if I were a little child and 
she had found me in a woeful plight, and had 
brought me healing in her love. 

As we stood thus, the weight of her head 
upon my shoulder seemed in some strange way 
to bear me up, so I stood strong and erect. I 
could never have fallen down. with Petonilla’s 
arm about me. Nay, had I known I must rest 
or forfeit my life, not for my very life would I 
have moved an inch toward longer life. Life 
had been long enough for me that day. It had 
been long enough to bring the arms of her I 
loved about my neck. But when she drew away 
in sudden confusion at what she had done, while 
her face and neck were flushed with the sunrise 
of a maiden’s bashfulness, I fell at full length 
upon the floor. It was a cruel fall, and in my 
agony at the new pain I forgot that I was 
Garcilaso, and made moan. 

And when I remembered who I was, and the 
duty of a knight, my head lay upon Petonilla’s 
knee, and her hand stroked back my matted 
hair. I could feel her fingers finding their way 
though the locks so long unkempt. I whispered, 


242 


GARCILASO 


“Water!” She laid me gently down, and 
brought me drink. Never shall I forget that 
draught. She held the great cup to my lips, 
her face bent over me. It seemed that I could 
never get enough ; but presently she drew the 
cup away, with a sad smile that tried to be gay, 
and she said she feared I would do myself an 
injury; and she asked how long it had been since 
I had slaked my thirst. But I would not tell 
her. After that she fed me, breaking the food 
to bits and placing them in my mouth with her 
own hands. Also she brought a pillow for my 
head, and a coverlet, wherewith she covered me, 
wrapping it about my feet, for the stone floor 
was cold. 

“Canst thou now feel the coldness of the 
stones?” said she. 

“Dear my lady, no; but to that I have grown 
well used. For the dungeon floor has been my 
couch this long time.” 

“Alas!” she cried; and her hand found its 
way to my head again, and so the fingers went 
playing among the locks. I reached Out my 
hand and took hers, that one which rested at 
home; and in doing so I threw back in a meas- 


JUST PETONILLA AND I 


2 43 


ure the coverlet, so that the yellow robe of the 
Inquisition with one of its horrid images was laid 
bare. With a gentle touch she put back the 
cover. 

“Ay, Petonilla,” said I, “cover my shame ! 0 

“Thy shame, Garcias? Is it then a shame to 
have suffered so much for me? Nay, were this 
a king’s robe, could I honor it as much?” Then 
she rose upon her knees and drew the cover 
quite away, and took up the end of that accursed 
garment in her hand, and she did kiss the hem 
of it right gently. 

I said never a word. 

“Thy faithful squire will be here soon,” said 
she, presently, when she had come back to her 
former position. It was he who cried thy name 
from the shops, for that was our plan. And 
when he comes he will bear thee to a chamber 
we have fitted up. There thou shalt be cared 
for, my true knight, and strength will come to 
thee once more.” 

“I care not, Petonilla, if the faithful squire 
come or no. Food and drink have given me 
wonderful newness of life; food and drink and 
the touch of thy hand. The magic of that touch 


GARCILASO 


2 44 

converts the coldest stones to warm and easy 
couches.” 

She drew away her hand. “I think he will 
soon be here,” said she. 

“Thy hands,” said I, “seem very fond of 
staying at home.” 

She clasped them about her knee. 

“Unkind hand!” said I, “to make so short a 
visit to the one who loves it dearly.” 

Then she reached out and touched my brow 
and hair, but it was a shy and fluttering bird 
that would not nest. 

“They told me if I would declare thy 
rescuer,” said I, “they would set me free, nor 
confiscate my estates. But I would not. So 
they set the iron cap upon my head and turned 
the screw, and hell blazed in my brain.” 

Then Petonilla began to weep, and she put 
her head down close to mine, so that her hair fell 
over my face, and its perfume swept through my 
being, and it was as if a fragrant breeze, laden 
with life and moisture, had kissed a barren land. 
And she laid the flat of her palm upon my cheek, 
as if feeling for the wound; and indeed she found 
it there — a cruel line that circled round my head. 


JUST PETONILLA AND I 


2 45 


But I began to grow ashamed at my own 
words. So I pushed her head gently away, and 
took her hand and laid it in her lap. And, “ My 
lady,” said I, “I have done thee a grievous 
wrong, and myself as well, in boasting of my 
wounds for thee. For much as I could prize 
thy love, I would not buy it with any suffering 
of mine. For true love laughs at a price.” 

She sat quite still, making no answer. So 
presently I began upon a new thought. “I 
must tell thee of poor old Korah.” 

She started, and turned to me eagerly. She 
echoed his name. 

“Yes, ” I said, “he has been burnt this day 
with eight others. I should have suffered with 
him but for my deliverers. Poor old man! But 
now his troubles are left behind him, since he 
who steps into the stream of death slips his 
troubles from him as they were a garment.” 

“Have you had any speech with him, 
Garcias?” 

“We were in the same dungeon. What I 
tell thee now is for his sake, not mine. Pay no 
heed to me when I say, Petonilla, that I was 
starved on his account. Think only of him, else 


246 


GARCILASO 


would my words seem boasting. But he was 
chained naked to the wall, and I wrapped him 
in my cloak, and warmed his poor feet at my 
breast. Food was just beyond his reach. A 
voice called to me that if I gave him to eat, 
never more should I taste food. But I laughed 
that voice to scorn; I fed the old man. So he 
came to forgive me, and to love me. We often 
talked of thee, and he told me of his children. 
We starved and suffered in company. In the 
procession we were together, and when we had 
a chance of speech, he gave me his blessing and 
I gave him mine, and promised him God’s. I 
know not what God will say to that, but as he is 
God, I think he will redeem my pledge!” 

Then Petonilla kissed me upon the brow. 
And she hid her face to weep for Korah. In 
this wise passed many a precious moment which 
I stored away in the treasury of my memory, to 
bring out in after days, and rub bright for a dark 
hour. At last came my faithful squire, who 
carried me to a chamber fitted out for my com- 
fort. I was disposed upon a soft and goodly 
bed, and sleep came to me. When I awoke, I 
seemed weaker than ever I had been before ; and 


JUST PETONILLA AND I 


247 

indeed I passed a many day upon that bed 
before I recovered from my rigorous treatment. 
But as for my feelings, my aches, my restless- 
ness, and my dreams, let me pass them o’er; 
for this is not the diary of a sick man. 

From my squire I learned all that I cared to 
know of the past. As for the old castle wherein 
I lay, it was (as I have set forth) the property of 
a robber baron. Since the sovereigns had dis- 
couraged outlawry among the nobility, this baron 
had betaken him to Italy, there to ply his voca- 
tion, and to enjoy the life to him most meet and 
congenial. He had closed up his castle until 
such time as he should grow old, and his heart 
no longer leap up to meet the thrill of blood and 
booty; at which time he would assuredly return, 
open up his castle, marry him a wife, a young 
wife and a pretty, and sit beside his fire and tell 
of his deeds. In one wing of this castle dwelt 
Petonilla, all alone, for being in hiding, she had 
no maidens with her. But my squire ministered to 
her wants, slipping from the pile in the darkness, 
wandering abroad after food, perchance staying 
away a day or two at a time. And she was good 
lady to him, so that her wishes ran upon his feet. 


248 


GARCILASO 


Well, Petonilla came to see me every day, for 
she was lonely, and she pitied my loneliness. 
She would sit at first beside my bed and talk to 
me in gentle tones, and after some days she 
would take her seat somewhat more remote. To 
some those visits must have seemed pretty much 
like, but to me, every coming of Petonilla was a 
new thing, like no other blessing under the sun. 
And among the many talks we had together, let 
me gather broken bits and piece them end to 
end, so that they will read like a tale. 

“Dear my lady,” said I, “and who were the 
‘ We' of our first sweet conversation?” 

“She looked as if she had lost my meaning, 
and was seeking it in the air. 

“I mean,” said I, “who was thy fellow-con- 
spirator that selected this castle for my hiding- 
place.” 

“Herbert,” said she, softly. 

“I thought as much. Did he bring thee 
hither?” 

“Yes, my lord. We escaped from the 
familiars that night of the great conflagration, 
and fared toward Seville. Now there were many 
moving forms in the Vega; therefore no one 


JUST PETONILLA AND I 


2 49 

thought strange that Herbert should leave the 
camp. In due time we came to the home of 
that merchant Americus Vespucius, he who had 
befriended Korah and me. He engaged to keep 
me hid until Herbert should deliver him certain 
moneys and lead me away.” 

“By my faith,” said I, “for a merchant he is 
not without a gentle heart.” 

“He is a good man,” came the answer, as if 
it were no matter for surprise. “So Herbert 
learned that thou wast in the Inquisition, and he 
said thou wouldst never give up the secret of my 
rescue, and therefore thou must be led past this 
very castle to thy burning.” 

“And what saidst thou, Petonilla? Didst say 
I would keep thy secret?” 

She looked at me through tears. “I said 
thou wouldst betray us, Garcias. He knew thee 
better than I. But had I not seen thee cast my 
colors in the dust?” 

I said nothing, but turned away my head. 
She slipped to my side. I did not look round. 
I felt her shadow fall across my eyes. She bent 
over me. “Garcias,” said she, “I pray thee be 
good lord to me, and forgive my doubt. It 


25° 


GARCILASO 


seems that ever through my life I am too 
mistrusting.” 

“Didst thou crown him, Petonilla?” I asked, 
bitterly. But turning and seeing her face, I 
took her hand, and forgave her, so we were 
friends again. 

“So Herbert brought me here,” she went on; 
“and here I abode, attended by thy squire. 
Sometimes,” she added, “Herbert came. Yes, 
three times. Only three times. Hast thou 
heard,” she said, suddenly, as if to forget her 
thought, “how the king has had a city of stone 
built where the city of silken tents went up in a 
blaze?” 

“Ay; and they call the city Santa Fd?” 

“The same. Well, knights and varlets 
worked at the building side by side, that the 
Moors might not think our forces discomfited 
by our misfortune. Ah, what thoughts must 
have besieged their breasts on seeing our city of 
stone rise before their walls! Then well they 
knew we would not depart until the surrender of 
Granada; nor will we! So Herbert worked with 
the rest, and ever kept himself in the eye of the 
court, that suspicion might never scorch him 


JUST PETONILLA AND I 


2 5 * 

with its breath. For the same reason he rode 
in the procession that day, so no man may say 
he aided thee. Thus it will come about that 
when he wills to return to Germany, no one will 
say him nay; and thus he can carry me with 
him. ” 

“What, my lady! Art thou for Germany?” 

“Ay, my lord. For all my- kindred being 
slain, I have no one. But Herbert hath a 
mother who will share with me her home.” 

“Petonilla,” I said for the second time, 
“hast thou crowned Herbert?” 

“What is thy meaning, Seftor Garcilaso? 
Thou hast used those words before.” 

“Petonilla, I was near at hand that night of 
the great conflagration, when Herbert ordered 
thee to beg his pardon, and when he commanded 
thee to crown him. But the flames burst forth, 
and thou didst pause with the wreath in thy 
hand, nor crowned him then. But since then, 
it may be, thou hast crowned?” 

“And thou wast near, and heard, and saw?” 
she faltered, with a ruddy color. 

“I heard and saw. Tell me if thou hast 
crowned.” 


25 2 


GARCILASO 


‘'No, my lord, I have crowned no one; never 
in all my life have I crowned any.” 

My heart leaped. “Petonilla, what sayest 
thou? Never? What! After thy escape, thou 
wouldst not crown Herbert to his pleading?” 

‘‘He never asked again, my lord.” 

‘‘Never asked? And why hath he not asked 
thee to crown him?” 

*‘1 know not,” said she, with a far-away light 
in her sad eyes. ‘‘Nay, I know not.” 

“Well,” said I, ‘‘but that night he asked for 
thy love. Is it his, Petonilla?” 

‘‘We have not spoken of such a thing since 
that moment,” she said. “Nay, Garcias, he 
was wrought up that night to a strange and 
unnatural state. Herbert doth not love me, my 
lord; nay, I tell thee Herbert loves me not.” 

“And thou?” said I; “lovest thou the 
German?” 

“Methinks, ” said she, “that he were the one 
to ask that question. And I cannot abide with 
thee, Sefior de Vega, when thou wouldst make 
love the subject of thy discourse; and so I 
take my leave.” 

Whereupon she left me for that time. I was 


JUST PETONILLA AND I 


253 


so sorry to see her go, that when she came again 
I talked of the wild plans of Columbus, and of 
the coldness which he met at court. (Now as for 
his plans, they were worthy one of nobler birth, 
for this Columbus was the son of a wool-comber.) 

One day I was awakened by a hand upon my 
shoulder. I started up with, “ Petonilla!” But 
it was Herbert the German. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


HERBERT SPOILS THE DUET 

As he greeted me, I looked keenly into 
Herbert’s face. I was at this time strong 
enough to sit up, and when I told him so, he 
helped me to dress, and placed me in a chair. 
During this courtesy, few words were inter- 
changed. Perhaps he felt that the gaze of a 
shrewd man was bent upon him. Perhaps he 
was merely insensible and dull. At any rate, 
his face was impassive. I said to him, when we 
were at our ease, “Is not this like one of those 
days of yore — one of those blessed days, when 
thou and I sat together in our tent and made a 
pretty fable of the future?’’ 

He said he was reminded of those past days; 
but his eyes did not light up. Indeed, he was 
as serious as a German. 

“Ah, Herbert,’’ said I, reproachfully, “thou 
seemest to have no love and no regret for the 
past. But as for me, I cannot bring back one 
of my happy days without making the present 

254 


HERBERT SPOILS THE DUET 


2 55 


moment pale. For my present moments” (thus 
said I) “are but twinkling stars that fade and 
melt and disappear when the moon of memory 
rides the sky of my thought.” 

“In truth,” said he, “I would not crawl back 
out of the present for the fairest crown that ever 
sparkled upon the brow of a day that is dead.” 
Then he looked all about the -room, and said 
he, “But, Laso, I see no books here. I bade 
thy squire bring thee some folios from my own 
store.” 

“He brought them,” said I, “but I had them 
stored away in some chamber, where, it may be, 
mice and rats do fatten upon their words. What 
am I, that I should sit me down in a corner, and 
take a book upon my knee, and play at life? 
For I am a Spanish knight, I am Garcilaso.” 

He seemed abashed at that, as well became 
him, and he sought to change the subject in 
this wise: “Well, well, my friend, and since 
thou wilt not engage thy time with books, per- 
chance thou readest in a maiden’s eyes. How 
is Sefiorita Fontane?” 

“Thou hast not been to her?” I asked. 

“Not I, for I have seen her but thrice since 


256 


GARCILASO 


I brought her hither, and this time I came 
straight to thee. But is she well? And dost 
thou see her often?” 

“She is very well, and I see her every day. 
Sure, ’twould be a sullen day that saw not our 
meeting, as long as we abide in the same house! 
Nay, ’twould be a jealous day, a day little worth 
the while!” 

He arose and began to pace the floor slowly. 
“Garcilaso,” said he, “when thou art strong, 
wilt thou with me to Germany?” 

I shook my head. 

“What!” he cried; “dost thou cling to the 
country that hath dishonored thee, to the church 
that hath excommunicated? Come with me to 
a fairer land; a land uncursed by thy desolate 
plains and barren mountains, which yields to 
every one a blessed freedom of thought — which 
is not chained by thy relentless Inquisition. 
Come to Germany, and look no more upon the 
country which disowns thee.” 

“Seftor Klein de Metz,” I cried, laying my 
hand upon my sword; “nay, forbear, forbear! 
After what thou hast done for me, can I fight 
thee? Oh, I cannot! Play not, then, a coward’s 


HERBERT SPOILS THE DUET 


2 57 


part in reviling my native land. The king and 
queen thought me dead, burned to death in the 
great conflagration, until the news reached them 
of the auto da //. And now they look upon me 
as an escaped heretic, hiding the secret of Peto- 
nilla. As for the holy church, wherein was it 
wrong, seeing that it cannot err? And dear to 
my heart, yes, dear as my life, .are the barren 
plains, the desolate mountains of Old Castile.” 

My voice trembled with passionate enthu- 
siasm, but he heard me utterly unmoved, and 
he said, calmly, “Then thou wilt not to Ger- 
many?” 

4 ‘Never! God, who knoweth all the choice 
portions of his world, had a kind thought for 
me, and gave me Spain for a birthplace.” 

“All Spain hateth thee, save a few bold 
knights who love thee for thy deeds. If thou 
wert to fall this moment at the feet of Ferdinand 
the Catholic, he would demand from thee Peto- 
nilla’s hiding-place, nor remember what thou didst 
for him. And many there be who never heard 
of Garcilaso, and they would curse thee for a 
heretic. Little dost thou believe how little thou 
art known! For an evil deed journeys from sea 


258 


GARCILASO 


to sea, but a good deed travels only as far as the 
heart of a friend.” 

“What is my evil deed?” I cried. 

“Was it not evil to defy the church? But 
thou wilt not to Germany? Then Petonilla and 
I must soon bid thee farewell; for I am done 
with Spain, and it is I who tell thee so!” 

“Petonilla? Perchance she will not with 
thee. ” 

“Ay, but will she,” returned the German, 
contentedly. “Hear my plan. I have sent for 
my mother. She will live awhile in Spain, and 
Petonilla with her. Thus all three will fare to 
Germany when we are quite secure, and the 
thought of Petonilla is lost in the forgetfulness 
of the world. But I could scarce go alone with 
her, for she is a woman. ’ ’ Then that cold, strange 
man repeated, as it were a matter of news, and 
good news, too, “Ay, she is a woman!” 

“Is she a woman that thou lovest?" I asked. 

“The very woman!” he cried, with a sudden 
smile; “and it is I who tell thee so!” 

“Then why dost thou not tell her so?” I 
demanded, fiercely. “An thou lovest her, how 
is it that thou hast been to her but thrice?” 


HERBERT SPOILS THE DUET 


2 59 


“True love,” saidr he, “is a miser, and hoards 
its best for a future day.” 

“I cannot believe in thy love, Herbert,” I 
said, peevishly. “Were I in her regard, would 
I not be with her as long as I might? Would 
I fetch me a mother to share our company? No 
such thing, Herbert; no mother, by St. James! 
German love may be a miser, but Spanish love 
lives all in a day!” 

“Rest content,” said he, without spirit. 
“Every man must love in his own way, an he 
love. But remember, my friend, when we go 
hence we shall still be in Spain; yea, for months 
we must still abide here. So it will be as need- 
ful to keep our secret as ever. Thou shalt be 
free to go where thou listest. But bring us not 
to grief. But I know thou wilt not, thou faith- 
ful Garcias! Here is one trouble; she will bear 
no name but Petonilla Fontane. For since all 
her kindred were killed in Piedmont, she clings 
to her name — ay, as if to do them honor. ’Tis 
strange how a gentle creature may have a will of 
iron. She says she would not change her true 
name to escape death. And Petonilla is no 
Spanish name, for it should be Petronilla; but 


26 o 


GARCILASO 


she holdeth to this Italian corruption of letters — 
and it is a name now widely known. How 
strange is woman! For one might think to 
bend her to his will in all good purposes, but 
behold ! in this thing she yieldeth not one 
tittle.” 

“Here is too much talk of Petonilla, ” said I, 
impatiently. “An thou must think and muse 
upon her, keep thy musings in thine own pate, I 
pray thee. But go to her, my friend. She will 
be right pleased.” 

“I will not see her again,” said he, churlishly, 
“until I come to take her to my mother.” 

And he kept his word, this marvelous phleg- 
matic creature. Yes, he came for her one night, 
and I was able to walk now, for I had waxed 
strong. Many a courtly visit I had paid my fair 
lady in her wing of the castle. Often we met in 
a common apartment where we had played 
games and were right merry, and where I talked 
of my past history, ay, talked away the hours of 
day. Sure, never was there another so easy to 
talk to as Petonilla! For she listened so intently, 
never interrupting, that in her rapt attitude it 
was as if she heard you not. 


HERBERT SPOILS THE DUET 


261 


But now he came to take her away, and we 
said farewell, we kissed and parted. It was the 
first time our lips had met; and as for Herbert, 
he had never kissed her — no, not so much as 
upon the cheek. Now I would that those 
shriveled and purblind souls who find a wrong 
in every kiss could feel such rapture as thrilled 
my heart that night. As for me, I count no 
kiss lost that ever I did know ; and I would there 
were more in my past life, for, by my soul, 
kisses are the roses that come when love bursts 
into bloom. 

I stood at the dark opening in the castle-wall, 
I thrust out my head and watched their shadowy 
forms pass down the street — the forms of Herbert 
and Petonilla. Yes, like shadows they flitted 
away, and became a part of the dark night, so 
that it seemed, for a time, as if they had never 
been but shadows in my life — shadows of 
thoughts that were no more. But when I closed 
the opening, and my faithful squire lighted the 
torch, and we stood looking at each other, my 
sorrow came back to me ; and I knew from the 
ache in my heart that I had lost a friend. A 
friend? Ay, and more. And I knew that the 


264 


GARCILASO 


Guadaloupe looked upon Don Garcilaso! So I 
fled through the night, and though now strong 
and valiant, I shuddered at sudden sounds, and 
crouched low when I saw a dark form flit past 
a corner. 

Who else was in the street? What form was 
that pausing in the deep threshold of a door? I 
ran, I gained the open country, I tarried not. 
And though sometimes it seemed sure that I was 
pursued, when I stood still to test the fear, I 
was alone. 


CHAPTER XIX 

HOW I TOLD MARGARET MY MIND 

That night was followed by a feverish day. I 
slunk along deserted bypaths, though I was fully 
disguised. But though dressed beyond recog- 
nition, as I thought, I had one vulnerable 
point — my fear. And it did seem, as night fol- 
lowed day, that I was not entirely alone, but 
that some form continually pressed in my foot- 
steps. Was it a fancy? 

I was dressed as a pilgrim, in long black 
robes, and my hood did me good stead in hiding 
my face. I could have journeyed faster and 
more secure if I could have ridden. But no 
horse had I, nor anything in this world (but a 
hope in the next), for all my property had been 
confiscated. Indeed I was a poor man, possess- 
ing nothing but the garments Herbert had left 
me. I would not dress as a common laborer, 
for I was too proud and high-spirited to toil with 
my hands; so I was obliged to beg as I plodded 
across the country. In this manner I came to 
265 


266 


GARCILASO 


Santa F£, where had stood the city of silk, and 
where my happiest hours had sped. I know not 
why I went thither; it seemed that I was drawn 
by some power that would bear no resistance. 

In the new city, as in most of the towns and 
cities of my country, stood a small building 
devoted to pilgrims, where all who were upon a 
pilgrimage were given fire, water, and a bed. 
Here I passed the night and the next day. On 
the second evening a page came to me bearing 
a message. The message was this, that Lady 
Margaret Guzman de Medina Sidonia desired to 
hold speech with me in her apartment, and that 
the page was sent to show me the way. At first 
fear leaped at my throat, thinking I had been 
discovered ; but instead of giving way before it, 
I followed resolutely. As we walked through 
the street, I saw a man I would rather not have 
seen, and he was Father Pedro. He looked 
earnestly upon me, but he went his way serenely. 
And he was riding a powerful gray horse with 
black housings. Margaret occupied a room in 
a wing of the queen’s house, and she received 
me alone. The page was sent away. I wore 
my hood and cape, I bare my staff and scrip, my 


HOW I TOLD MARGARET MY MIND 267 


water-bottle, and my low crowned hat, turned 
up in front and fastened with black strings, and 
I displayed the shell of St. James of Compostella. 
I held the hat and staff in my hand, and the 
hood was drawn close about my head, and down 
to my eyes, and she looked upon the darkened 
and bearded face and knew it not. 

“I pray thee, old man, sit thee down,” said 
she, in a gentle voice. So I rested before her, 
but she continued upon her feet; and she was 
dressed simply, and her face was sad and worn 
by some care. She had that she would have 
asked, but it seemed her lips would not obey her 
wish. So after some time I spoke, using a 
hollow and croaking voice such as she might not 
know. “Why, lady, hast thou sent for a poor 
and simple pilgrim?” 

“It is my delight,” said she, “to help all pil- 
grims who come hither, and I send for them all, 
to question them, and to give them bounty.” 
And she came to my side, and dropped a silken 
purse into my hands. For the purse I was right 
glad, but of her nearness I was afraid. Yet, 
remembering that my right eye wore a huge 
black patch over it (as is the custom when one 


268 


GARCILASO 


hath taken a pious vow), I made shift to sit 
quiet. And, “For thy bounty I thank thee,” I 
said, “and for thy questions I will seek to find 
answers/’ 

Then said she: “Holy pilgrim, thou hast 
wandered far?” 

“Ay, lady, far, far. I am a pilgrim who will 
never find the end of his pilgrimage till death 
calls; for life is my pilgrimage, and the shrine 
I seek is the grave.” 

“Alas! poor pilgrim,” said she; “and is there 
no stopping-place upon the road, no little build- 
ing that to another is brick or stone or wood, 
but that to thee is home? And hast no compan- 
ions upon this long pilgrimage, no companions 
that thou mayest call wife or son or daughter?” 

“None, lady. I am a lonely pilgrim, who hath 
no company but the memories of happier days.” 

“Tell me,” said she, eagerly; “tell me, O' 
pilgrim, what is thy consolation. Teach me 
how this may be, and yet the heart find rest and 
contentment.” 

“Alas, lady, this I do not know; for I am 
but newly entered upon my pilgrimage, and I 
have not yet learned to be content.” 


HOW I TOLD MARGARET MY MIND 269 


“And so thou canst not tell me,” said she, 
with a sigh. “Ah, well, perhaps one learns for 
oneself. But a sad thing, a sad thing, so it 
seems to me, is the memory of a better day. 
Holy pilgrim, thou hast seen much of the world; 
much of the world and many of its people. Tell 
me, didst thou know Garcilaso?’’ And her voice 
sank to a whisper. I looked quickly all about, 
but we were alone, and the walls were of stone. 

“I know him,” I whispered. 

“Thou knowest? Dear pilgrim, dear old 
man, fear not to tell me, for I am his friend. 
Where is he?” 

“He is safe/’ 

“Thou hast seen him since his rescue?’’ 

“I have lived in the same house with him for 
months,’’ said I. “Fear not for him.’’ 

“But is he crippled and ill?’’ 

“Nay, quite strong and well again.’’ 

“And happy?’’ 

“Never, lady; never!’’ 

“Holy pilgrim,’’ said she, and she was stand- 
ing at my knee, and her voice was eager and 
timid, “didst ever hear him speak of me?’’ 

“Of thee, lady?’’ 


GARCILASO 


270 

“Ay, of me. Of the Lady de Medina Sidonia ; 
but he called me ‘Margaret.’ ” And she added, 
as it were to herself, “He called me ‘Margaret.’ 
We were children together.’’ 

“Why, truly, I have heard him speak of thee. 
He is thy friend, this I know. Yea, he hath 
spoken of thee more than once.” 

“And of another did he speak?’’ she asked. 

“Many others, indeed, as Pulgar, Herbert — ’’ 

“Nay, but another lady?’’ 

“Thou must mean Petonilla,’’ said I. 

“That is the name,” said Margaret. 

“By my soul,’’ said I, “he hath spoken that 
name a million times, for it sings itself in his 
brain like an old tune that will not end.’’ 

“He loved Petonilla,’’ said Margaret. 

“Ay, and hath never given o’er his loving.’’ 

“And indeed,’’ said Margaret, “after what 
he bore for her, the agony of the torture and the 
shame of the auto da //, I hope he is now happy 
in her love. ’’ 

“How can that be, lady? For Petonilla doth 
not love him.’’ 

“Doth not love him?’’ cried she. “Doth 
not, after all he hath done and borne for her? 


HOW I TOLD MARGARET MY MIND 271 

What sayest thou, pilgrim? Indeed, thou know- 
est not the truth.” 

“Who should know as well as I?” returned 
the holy pilgrim. “I tell thee the sweet and 
angelic Petonilla never loved Garcilaso.” 

“But I tell thee thou speakest false words!” 
cried the lady, hotly. “ How could she but love 
him? How could she but love sp gracious and 
so brave a knight, and so devoted a lover?” 

“I know not how she kept from it,” said I, 
“nor if it were hard for her to forbear. But, by 
the cross, she has never loved him, and never 
will!” 

“Then she is unworthy of his love!” burst 
forth Margaret. 

“Lady!” I cried, in a sudden passion. 

“Ay, she is unworthy, she is an ingrate; she 
is a miserable heretic, with a heart of stone, and 
with eyes that are blind. Let her love some 
baseborn fellow, let her mate with her equal. 
Let her company with wretched Vaudois, and if 
she repent not, nor embrace the true faith, let 
her be held accursed!” 

“Lady!” I cried, springing to my feet. 

“Ay,” exclaimed my lady — for she was in a 


272 


GARCILASO 


fury, for which there was assuredly no reason — 
“I knew this woman, this milk-faced, timid, 
shy, and cunning woman. I saw her steal Gar- 
cilaso’ s heart — ay, steal it away; I saw her play 
with him and lead him on, and all the time she 
was laughing to herself, she was laughing at that 
brave and noble cavalier. In her bosom is the 
cunning of a witch. She hath no mercy, no 
feeling.” 

“By heaven!” cried I, “Petonilla is the 
purest and dearest lady in the whole world. 
And I hate thee, Margaret, for thy venomous 
words; for thy perfidy, for thy envy, I hate 
thee in my soul.” 

The face of my lady changed, and it was as 
troubled and as white as at that moment I could 
have wished. “O God,” said she,” it is Gar- 
cilaso!” 

“It is Garcilaso,” said I; “and let the whole 
town hear, and let all the inquisitors come and 
take me and break me anew. But, by St. James, 
while the breath is in this body, it will defend 
the fair name of Petonilla. Cast upon her what 
shame and contempt, what falsehood and malice, 
thou mayest, I shall sweep them away and 


HOW I TOLD MARGARET MY MIND 273 


show her pure white soul and her fair golden 
fame.” 

“Garcilaso!” 

“May mine ears never hear thy voice again!” 
I cried. “Traitorous Margaret, traitor to Peto- 
nilla, who was thy friend, and traitor to thy better 
nature, for once thou wast a true and good lady. 
What hath soured and embittered. and hardened 
thee, I know not. Fair is thy face, O Margaret, 
and beautiful thy form and mien. But the worm 
of bitterness hath crawled beneath this sem- 
blance of divinity! How changed thou art!” 

“Ah, no, Garcias, I have not changed. Gar- 
cias, I have never changed!” 

“Thou art changed indeed, false and cruel 
woman. Little did I think when I came hither 
that it would be thy tongue to malign the fair 
character of homeless Petonilla! For I believed 
that while others might condemn, thou wouldst 
uphold her fame.” 

“Garcias, Garcias, and is this the end of our 
friendship, and is this my reward?” 

“Every word thou hast spoken against Peto- 
nilla thou hast spoken against me. Her enemy 
cannot be my friend. Farewell, my lady; I pity 


272 


GARCILASO 


fury, for which there was assuredly no reason — 
“I knew this woman, this milk-faced, timid, 
shy, and cunning woman. I saw her steal Gar- 
cilaso’s heart — ay, steal it away; I saw her play 
with him and lead him on, and all the time she 
was laughing to herself, she was laughing at that 
brave and noble cavalier. In her bosom is the 
cunning of a witch. She hath no mercy, no 
feeling. ’ * 

“By heaven!" cried I, “Petonilla is the 
purest and dearest lady in the whole world. 
And I hate thee, Margaret, for thy venomous 
words; for thy perfidy, for thy envy, I hate 
thee in my soul.” 

The face of my lady changed, and it was as 
troubled and as white as at that moment I could 
have wished. “O God," said she," it is Gar- 
cilaso !" 

“It is Garcilaso," said I; “and let the whole 
town hear, and let all the inquisitors come and 
take me and break me anew. But, by St. James, 
while the breath is in this body, it will defend 
the fair name of Petonilla. Cast upon her what 
shame and contempt, what falsehood and malice, 
thou mayest, I shall sweep them away and 


HOW I TOLD MARGARET MY MIND 273 


show her pure white soul and her fair golden 
fame.” 

“Garcilaso!” 

4 ‘May mine ears never hear thy voice again!” 
I cried. 44 Traitorous Margaret, traitor to Peto- 
nilla, who was thy friend, and traitor to thy better 
nature, for once thou wast a true and good lady. 
What hath soured and embittered and hardened 
thee, I know not. Fair is thy face, O Margaret, 
and beautiful thy form and mien. But the worm 
of bitterness hath crawled beneath this sem- 
blance of divinity! How changed thou art!” 

4 4 Ah, no, Garcias, I have not changed. Gar- 
cias, I have never changed!” 

4 4 Thou art changed indeed, false and cruel 
woman. Little did I think when I came hither 
that it would be thy tongue to malign the fair 
character of homeless Petonilla! For I believed 
that while others might condemn, thou wouldst 
uphold her fame. ” 

‘‘Garcias, Garcias, and is this the end of our 
friendship, and is this my reward?” 

4 4 Every word thou hast spoken against Peto- 
nilla thou hast spoken against me. Her enemy 
cannot be my friend. Farewell, my lady; I pity 


GARCILASO 


2 74 

thee for thy hard and unjust heart. But pity, 
do I say? Nay, take my hate and let me go. 
And let my scorn teach thee that a friend is one 
who will bear all manner of kind words and 
gentle deeds, but who will not endure one 
blow !” 

With that I strode to the door and flung it 
wide. Margaret did not move one step, but she 
followed me with her eyes. And, “Garcias,” 
said she, “whenever thou art ready to take up 
our old friendship, I shall be ready.” 

I deigned no reply. I strode from that room 
and from that house. In the street, before the 
door, sat a man upon a gray horse — a gray horse 
with black housings. And the man — he was 
Father Pedro. 


CHAPTER XX 

A STRUGGLE ON THE PRECIPICE 

Yes, there sat my father confessor, and he 
was watching me covertly. I shrank back as if 
to avoid a blow. He sat his horse unmoved. 
Then taking courage, and remembering my dis- 
guise, I passed on as bravely as might be, not 
daring to look back, lest my uneasiness arouse 
his suspicions. But when I turned a corner I 
ran and ran, for I knew that the net was closing 
about me. I felt to make sure that my dagger 
still lay in my bosom. Ay, it was there; it was 
there, and little did I dream of the use there 
would be for it that night ! But one thing I had 
resolved upon — never to be captured by any 
agent of the holy office. I dared not return to 
the pilgrim’s inn, I dared not abide in the city. 
So I sped from Santa F£. 

Sometimes, not pausing, I looked back upon 
that city of stone, as it lay white in the moon- 
light. I was seeking the form of a pursuing 
horseman; but the city lay as without life or 
275 


27 6 


GARCILASO 


purpose. On toward the mountains went I, on 
with what speed I might. I was rushing through 
a bath of liquid light, for never did the moon seem 
so bright as it did that night. On, on, on, till 
I was among the great barriers that skirted the 
Vega. I climbed a mountain path and sank to 
rest at the verge of a sheer precipice. Before 
reaching this dizzy eminence, the road had 
looped about, so I could now look down upon 
the heads of any who might seek to follow. 

Hark! to the beating of regular hoofs. They 
come! Yonder they are, far down the slope, 
six horsemen charging along in a swinging gallop. 
They reach the spurs of the mountains. They 
scatter on various trails. One takes the unfre- 
quented path I have just traversed. Ah, I see 
thee, Father Pedro — I see thee, lust and murder 
in thy heart! Where is my dagger? Here! It 
is ready and true! And now thou art in the 
road just below me, at the foot of the precipice. 

Now I had rolled a huge stone to the edge of 
the precipice, meaning to tumble it down upon 
the head of Father Pedro. I thought how he 
was spurring along in quest of my life, and how 
he longed to get Petonilla into his power, and 


A STRUGGLE ON THE PRECIPICE 277 


hate surged up in my heart. But it seemed I 
could not roll down the stone, for when I leaned 
both my hands upon it to push it forward, the 
coldness of its touch chilled me through and 
through. So I gave up the thought, and looked 
about for a hiding-place, and saw none. 

Then the holy man came riding up the steep, 
came riding upon his gray steed. He saw me, 
and, “ Yield thyself!” cried he, drawing his 
sword. ‘‘Yield thyself, in the name of the holy 
church and the Blessed Virgin!” 

Ah, Father Pedro, thou didst not reckon 
upon the deeds of a desperate man! He sat 
firm upon his great horse, he clutched his keen 
sword in an iron hand, he had resolution in his 
voice and eye. Garcilaso was afoot and unarmed 
save for a simple dagger. But in his heart was 
the ferocity of a beast at bay. He rushed upon 
the horseman and seized him by the leg, and 
while Father Pedro sought to stab him with his 
sword, Garcilaso dragged him upon the ground, 
and the holy man fell with his sword-point below 
him, so that the blade was snapped clean off 
against the stones. For his weight had fallen 
upon it. But in the bout Garcilaso’s dagger 


278 


GARCILASO 


had fallen from his bosom, and this the holy man 
seized in his furious hand. He clutched me as 
I hung over him, and he dragged me down so 
that with one arm he held my head back against 
his panting bosom. Now, as he held me thus, 
his burly left arm clutching my head, my throat 
was bared and turned up to his view. In his 
right hand he held my dagger, and he held it 
above my throat, as my neck was pinned to his 
heart. I made not the least motion, and it 
seemed to him that my last effort at resistance 
was at an end. I could hear his heart beating, 
and his breath coming and going like a tempest. 

“Thy last chance, Garcilaso!” cried he, with 
a ring of triumph in his voice; “declare the hid- 
ing-place of the beautiful Petonilla, or die!” 

“Thou wilt never give me another chance?” 
I asked. 

“Never but this moment. Speak, Garcilaso!” 

“Strike, father!” said I, defiantly. 

“Thus dieth a vile heretic!” cried he, clutch- 
ing my head still more firmly, and the right hand 
trembled with the first instant of its fierce stroke. 
Ah, he had not reckoned upon the superhuman 
strength of a man who holds all in one effort. 


A STRUGGLE ON THE PRECIPICE 279 


For I could have broken from him before, since 
his strength was nothing to mine, but I had suf- 
fered him to clutch my head upon his bosom for 
this very instant. And as the keen blade 
descended, or, as I might say, almost before it 
began to descend, I tore myself away from his 
embrace, quick as a flash. Yes, as if his restrain- 
ing arm had been naught, indeed, I broke away, 
I broke away with a wild, mad scream, a scream 
of exultation, of defiance, of cruel mockery. 
Thus, quick as the stroke of a Christian, I was 
away from his restraint. And the next moment 
the blade of my dagger descended, and found 
not my bared throat, but Father Pedro’s heart. 
Ay, with his own hand he put out his light, for the 
blade, not finding me to receive it, plunged deep 
into his breast, as if thirsty for blood. And 
thus he died. He bowed together, he gasped, 
he fell upon his side, his rigid hand still clutch- 
ing the dagger-hilt, and the blade still in his 
heart. Then up leaped Garcilaso, then up leaped 
he upon that gray horse, upon that gray horse 
with its black housings, and away and away he 
dashed, fleet as the wind. All that night he 
rode. The next morning he turned loose the 


28 o 


GARCILASO 


horse, lest it betray him, and having hidden until 
the following night, he traveled afoot, no longer 
as a pilgrim but as a sailor — as one who seeks 
shipping. 

Now, as he journeyed onward, he was ever 
haunted by that fear of pursuit. Nay, more 
than once upon suddenly turning about he saw 
a form slink away. And Garcilaso knew he 
could no longer abide in the Spain of his pas- 
sionate devotion. Therefore had he donned a 
sailor’s suit, that he might leave his native land, 
and find what content there might be upon a 
foreign shore. He cared not whither he went; 
nay, the more barbarous the land, the better 
would it suit his bitter mood, so that he even 
thought of England. 

In this wise came Garcilaso to a small seaport, 
the name of which was Palos. It was in Palos 
that he resolved upon what he must do. And 
what plan he planned, how wild and desperate, 
you are now to learn. 


CHAPTER XXI 

THE WOMAN WITH THE MUFFLED FACE 

I put up at the Sailors’ Inn as soon as I 
reached Palos, for it began to be night. I 
ordered my supper, and sat in a corner where 
I might be alone. But presently the room filled 
with rude fellows, who fell to singing and drink- 
ing. There was one who spied me out and had 
a mind to hold converse with me. Now as soon 
as I saw him, I thought I knew him, but the 
longer I gazed the more I thought I knew him 
not. Then it seemed that I had never seen his 
face, but often had descried his tall, lank form. 
Suddenly it came to me, as quick as the stroke 
of a Christian, that this was the man who had 
followed me from Guadaloupe to Santa F6, and 
from Santa F6 hitherward! Since I had never 
been entirely sure that I had been followed, nor 
had ever seen the object of my suspicion dis- 
tinctly, of course this was a wild guess. But it 
made me shrewd and watchful. 

“Thou comest to Palos in good time, com- 
281 


282 


GARCILASO 


rade,” said he, “if perchance thou hast a longing 
for wild adventure. Hast heard of the assembly 
to be held to-morrow?” 

“I have heard nothing,” said I; “nor,” I 
added, “do I wish to hear.” 

“Nay, but listen, comrade. But what may 
I call thee?” 

“Anything but ‘comrade,’ ” said I, fiercely. 

“Be not wroth for nothing,” said he, in a 
gentle tone that went ill with my stomach. 
“Hast thou heard of Columbus, and how he has 
enlisted our prior, Juan Perez de Marchena, in 
his cause? For Columbus says the world is not 
near so small as many would have you suppose. 
He says it would be no great thing to sail west 
and light upon the edge of India. It may take 
a few days, he says; it may use up a week. But 
there is no question, in his mind, but India 
spreads over all the unknown world. 

“Fellow—” I cried. 

“Nay, my name is Antonio,” said this trouble- 
some meddler. “And he has made him a map 
wherein the Atlantic is sketched as a small thing. 
And all over the larger portion of the page he 
hath written India in a large hand, and thus he 


THE WOMAN WITH THE MUFFLED FACE 283 


hath sat at home and made a picture of the world. 
And since Granada hath fallen, our blessed king’s 
grace hath taken compassion upon this adven- 
turer. For though the University of Salamanca 
says his plan will not do, the queen would give 
him a chance. So he will go (with his map) in 
quest of this eastern edge of India. And to-mor- 
row, being the twenty-third of May, we are to 
assemble at St. George’s and hear him speak.” 

“Hark thee, Antonio!” said I, rising, “I see 
my supper is set forth, and I leave thee. And I 
tell thee with all the frankness of a friend that 
I like thee not, nor will I suffer speech from thee 
longer.” 

“Nay, thou art churlish,” said he, with a 
detestable good-humor. “I entreat thee tell me 
in what I have offended thee, that I may make 
good my fault.” 

“I know not why I dislike thee,” said I, 
sternly. “Thou mayest well be a better man 
than I. But it is my right to dislike whom I 
please to dislike. Another man cries cabbage a 
good dish, but I pass it by, not calling it evil, 
but unsuited to my liking. And so in' like wise 
I dislike thee, Antonio, and thou wouldst verily 


284 


GARCILASO 


have to be taken apart and put together in a 
different manner before I could stomach thee.” 

“Nay, my good comrade — ” he began. 

I clapped my hand upon my sword and gave 
him a look, and he made off at a fair rate, so that 
I ate in peace. But that night I wondered if I 
had been discreet, and the fear lost me some 
sleep. Therefore I resolved to be more circum- 
spect the following day, and endure the fellow’s 
insolence, lest I make him my enemy. If I could 
have been sure that he was a spy of the Inqui- 
sition — ; but all was dark, unformed. I must be 
sly and watchful! And if I became certain he 
knew my true name, and had followed me, then 
— well, men are easily found who, for a sum, will 
make good use of a dark night and a sharp blade. 

The next day I formed one of the great crowd 
that flocked to the church of St. George. We 
stood in the wide street facing the porch, for 
there was not standing-room within, and many a 
tale went round of strange lands recently dis- 
covered by the Portuguese, and of curious, quaint 
peoples, some bearing two heads to their one 
neck, with a full complement of mouths and 
noses. I had not stood there long before I felt 


THE WOMAN WITH THE MUFFLED FACE 285 


an elbow in my side, and there was Antonio 
grinning into my face. 

“Well, I find thee with the rest,” said he, in 
a cheery voice that made my gorge rise. But I 
remembered the part I must play, and pretended 
to be glad of his company. “What thinkest of 
all these wondrous rumors?” said he. “What 
thinkest of those huge pine trees that were seen 
floating in the sea; such trees as never men saw 
growing in the ground? And what of the bodies 
of those two dead men that floated to the Island 
of Flores — ay, the bodies of two men such as none 
ever saw walking to and fro?” 

“Wondrous strange,” said I, shortly. And 
I could not bring myself to talk to him in any 
wise. But in truth the strange things I heard 
that day made me shudder, so I was glad to see 
the Holy Cross lifted above the church. At last 
came three notables; Friar Perez of La Rabida, 
and my Lord Pinzon, and Columbus. Let me 
picture to you this strange adventurer. 

Columbus was fifty-seven years old, but he 
looked to be older, for his hair was as white as 
snow. He was tall and muscular, and his deport- 
ment was dignified and polished, as if he had by 


286 


GARCILASO 


birth been a Spaniard, Little humor was there 
in that long, commanding face, but he had an 
air of authority and importance such as must 
have struck the eye of any observer. His eyes 
were light gray, his complexion fair and ruddy, 
his nose aquiline, his cheek-bones high. When 
one looked upon him, it was as if one looked upon 
an associate of kings. There was something 
about him that set him apart from ordinary men. 
The kindling light in his eyes and the solemn 
cast of features told of a man who was accus- 
tomed to look upon splendid visions and to live 
in gorgeous dreams. He bore an expression 
which said, “At last!” For many years he had 
hoped to see this day — had hoped where another 
would have given o’er his plan. He had seen his 
youth slip away, he had been so tormented by 
failures and rebuffs, that at thirty his hair was 
white. He had lived past the useful period of 
his middle life; and now, as his day was draw- 
ing toward the fair short hours of evening, his 
life-work was to begin. 

As he advanced beside Pinzon and the holy 
man, they were met by the alcalde, the regidors 
and certain men of rank. They ascended the 


THE WOMAN WITH THE MUFFLED FACE 287 


porch of St. George and faced us, while a deep 
and ominous silence fell upon the multitude. 
Then a notary public stepped forward upon the 
porch, and in a loud voice read an order from the 
king. The authorities of Palos were commanded 
to fit out two caravels within ten days, and to aid 
Columbus in procuring a third vessel. The three 
crews were to be paid four months in advance, 
and they were to go wherever Columbus chose to 
direct them, save to those lands which had been 
newly explored. Other orders were read in 
regard to the expedition, but they were little 
heeded by the common people, for a great terror 
had fallen upon them. But as for me, I saw at 
once that this was my opportunity to get away, 
and as to my coming back, I was so desperate 
that I cared little. 

Those ten days passed by, so did ten weeks— 
ay, so did three months — before we were ready to 
depart, such was the rebellious behavior of the 
sailors and the traitorous terrors of the ship- 
masters. But not in this book will you find an 
account of our waiting and toiling, of our dis- 
appointments and fears. Go seek the account of 
my life, writ in ten great volumes, if you would 


288 


GARCILASO 


know the truth of the matter and the whole of 
it. Also there (and not in this work) will you 
find a history of the great voyage of Columbus, 
written as none other hath written. What of 
Antonio during those three months of suspense? 
I saw him no more, until a certain day. Ay, 
after that assembly before the church of St. 
George he disappeared ; he was no more in Palos. 
Had my fears been for naught? You are soon to 
learn. 

In the same July that Martin Pinzon came 
forward to the aid of Columbus, furnishing a ship 
and crew — a most unwilling crew — this same July 
saw the exodus of the Jews, of which I am now 
to speak. Our good king’s grace had issued a 
proclamation a few months before, ordering all 
Jews to be gone from Spain by the end of July, 
for the Inquisition was totally unable to cope 
with the astonishing number of these miserable 
heretics. For though the Holy Office condemned 
an average of six thousand every year, this was 
but as a drop in the ocean. And it was not to 
be borne that such a flood of infidelity should 
remain in fair Spain. So all Jews were com- 
manded to sell what they had (if they could find 


THE WOMAN WITH THE MUFFLED FACE 2S9 


buyers) and convert all property into bills of 
exchange, and so get them gone, carrying with 
them neither gold nor silver. Such an enormous 
amount of property was thus thrown upon the 
market that the demand was as weak as the cry 
of an infant; for I, myself, bought a noble 
vineyard with the exchange of my sword, and I 
purchased a house in Seville for a suit of clothes, 
and indeed the owners were lucfky to get as much. 

Well, as July drew to an end, every road 
leading from Spain was choked with refugees. 
As we were commanded to give them no aid or 
sympathy, we could but look on as they went 
forth from their native land. Now, the time was 
short for them to get a long way, and knowing 
if they were not quit of our land by the 
time given, every one of them would be burnt 
(for in the meantime our blessed Inquisition was 
resting, and was only engaged upon the prisoners 
it already held), you may imagine the strange 
scenes we witnessed. For all day long, and all 
night long as well, that stream of humanity 
poured through the country; beautiful maidens 
and matrons in rich attire, treading in the dust, 
and being pressed by others who rode upon 


290 


GARCILASO 


mules and horses. Carts and wagons of every 
description were jammed in the way, and inces- 
sant wails and cries rose from those who had been 
obliged to leave all behind them, and who but a 
short time ago were rich, but now had nothing 
in the world. 

When these people found shipping and got 
into Asia and Africa (for no civilized country 
would tolerate them), the most frightful misfor- 
tunes befell them. Throngs of Arabs and Afri- 
cans lined the way and chose from them the 
strongest men and fairest women, and carried 
them away to be slaves, nor could the Jews offer 
the least resistance. In spite of our good king’s 
order, many had contrived to secrete about them- 
selves precious stones and metals. The robber 
bands scented out this hidden property. They 
massacred whole companies of Jews that they 
might search them more at their ease ; and having 
been informed that the Jews swallowed their 
diamonds, these wretches (I speak of the Arabs) 
would not hesitate to cut open the defenseless 
wretches (and now I speak of the Jews). And 
so at last they came, starved and miserable, to 
such spots as would contain them, and they 


THE WOMAN WITH THE MUFFLED FACE 291 


carried with them the plague that swept from the 
earth many a good Christian. 

Indeed, I pitied the Jews, but I could not but 
consider them a rebellious and stiff-necked people, 
for had they but embraced the true faith, they 
might have remained in safety. Indeed some of 
them were converted in those days, and made 
good Catholics. But I grieve to state that there 
were as many as eight hundred thousand who 
held to their false doctrine, and so went forth 
from the land they loved to suffer murder, rapine, 
and disease. 

One day, when July was drawing near its close, 
I stood on the porch of the Sailors’ Inn, watch- 
ing the ceaseless stream of emigrants. Many a 
beautiful face I saw, many a lofty brow and 
generous countenance. And in the dust tramped 
little feet that had known naught save the carpet 
of luxury which wealth spreads for its possessor 
over the earth. There was one face — nay, two — 
I seemed to know. I could not tell why they 
awoke within me a memory of other days. I 
stared, and felt a strange burning of my heart. 
They were Jewesses, and sure never had I fel- 
lowed with any Jew. And yet they looked famil- 


292 


GARCILASO 


iar. They were in a party which had a mind to 
rest that night in the common, for they were so 
weak with travel their limbs refused to take 
advantage of the approaching night. The place 
of their encampment was near at hand. I wan- 
dered thither, never losing sight of the two 
women who had so strangely moved me. There 
was another woman with them, but her face was 
hidden by her cloak, which she wore upon her 
head. The Jews drew up their wagons in the 
form of a square, and all who could, crept within 
the enclosure, to lie upon the ground and sleep 
as they might beneath the stars and under the 
displeasure of God. 

I turned away with a heavy heart, and how 
gladly I would have give them a crust of bread, 
a pillow, a roof for the night ! But this thing 
was forbidden. Yes, I would have done it for 
Korah’s sake. Korah? A thought came to me. 
Korah, yes, they had reminded me of that old 
Jew ! Those two fugitives must be his daughters ! 
And the third with the muffled face, was not that 
the other? Korah’s children, the children of my 
old friend, wanderers before the wrath of man 
and hdaven ! 


THE WOMAN WITH THE MUFFLED FACE 293 


I clinched my hands, and turned as if to go 
toward where they lay. A hand grasped my 
arm. I turned about fiercely, and then, “Her- 
bert!” I exclaimed. 

“Hush!” said he, quickly. “But didst see 
her?” 

“I saw them both,” said I. 

“Nay, nay,” he said, impatiently. “I speak 
of Petonilla. She with the cloak.” 

“My God!” I cried. “What do you mean? 
She is no Jewess.” 

“No; but she allies herself with Korah’s 
daughters.” 

“And thou sufferest this thing?” I cried. 

“Not so loud,” said he; “but come with me 
and I will tell thee. Come away, for we are spied 
upon !” 

I followed the direction of his frowning gaze. 
There stood Antonio watching us. 


CHAPTER XXII 

DRIVEN FORTH TO PERISH 

“Where shall we go?” I asked, my eyes fixed 
upon the face of Antonio. 

“Why, as thou listest,” said Herbert, as one 
who knows not what he says. “We must get 
out of this press where we can converse. But 
Laso, who is that man : for he seems to know 
thee?” 

“His name is Antonio,” said I, angrily, “and 
that is all I know of him, save I suspect he hath 
dogged me from Guadaloupe. Sometimes I 
believe him a spy of the Inquisition. Lend me 
thy sword, and I will accost him. As for mine own 
weapon, I have bought a vineyard therewith.” 

“Not so,” said Herbert. “See, he hath 
vanished. Thy suspicion is built only upon a 
fear. Come, where can we be alone?” 

I took him to a great cross that stood away 
from the edge of the road — a great wooden cross 
with a life-sized image of the Christ crucified 
upon it, such as one sees all over Spain. 

294 


DRIVEN FORTH TO PERISH 


2 95 


“ Kneel we here before this crucifix,” said I, 
“and then we can talk at our ease, for all who 
pass will think we adore the blessed Son of God, 
and they will not disturb our devotions.” 

“I like it not,” said Herbert, stiffening his 
knees as I bent mine. “Hast thou no private 
room in Palos?” 

“None; for I am held as a common sailor, 
and so share the apartment of seven others who 
are for this mad venture with Columbus. But 
kneel with me, my friend, and we can talk secure. 
By Our Lady, there was never yet a kneeling to 
the crucifix thrown away.” 

“Well, so let it be,” said he, kneeling beside 
me. “Let others think what they please. As 
for me, I hold this wooden image no more than 
so much wood.” 

It chilled my blood to hear him speak thus, 
and I cried, “So this is the work of Petonilla!” 

“Thou hast spoken the subject of my dis- 
course,” said the German. “Garcilaso, that fair 
maiden is like to drive me quite to despair. One 
would think her made up of softness, and gentle- 
ness, and fair maidenly shamefacedness, and 
modesty, and sobriety. And yet she has a fiber 


296 


GARCILASO 


of rare obstinacy woven throughout her nature. 
Thou canst no sooner move her when it is her 
will not to be moved than thou canst move the 
rock of Gibraltar across the Strait to Africa.” 

“I came not here,” said I, “to listen to words 
spoken against my lady. Tell me why she fellows 
with Jews, and why thou permittest it.” As I 
finished speaking, the road near at hand became 
packed with a multitude of women, many carry- 
ing infants in their arms. The women were in 
rags, and their forms emaciated from toil and 
starvation. The wailing of the little children 
caused tears to spring to my eyes. But seeing 
a company of stern-faced priests marching toward 
us, crying out exhortations to the wretches to 
embrace the true faith, I dashed away my tears 
and raised my voice in the blessed Latin: “ Deus 
qui salutis ester nee, beatee Maries virginitate 
foscunda ,” etc. By the time I had reached “ Qui 
tecum vivat et — ” they were passed by, so I 
broke off with, “Tell me, Herbert, what it means, 
this mystery of Petonilla.” 

“When I took her from the baron’s castle,” 
said he, “I placed her upon a mule I had in wait- 
ing, Then I upon my horse, and we sped through 


DRIVEN FORTH TO PERISH 297 

the night to the humble cot where I had estab- 
lished my mother, newly come from Germany. 
Petonilla was happy with my mother, and some- 
times I visited them, but not often lest my com- 
ing might lure suspicion to the door. But when 
I was with them we spent the time in planning 
our escape into Germany. The terrible fear that 
Petonilla might be recognized upon the way (for 
she would never consent to bear an assumed 
name) gave us sorrow and perplexity. Yet it 
must be risked. The time was almost ripe for 
our dash toward the Pyrenees when this exodus 
of the Jews began. O, Garcilaso, what manner 
of king, what manner of queen, has Spain? 
What are these Jews? Are they dogs? Are they 
devils? Is not some mercy due them simply in 
that they wear a mortal form, like unto ours? 
But if there should be an edict that every dog 
must be driven from Spain, it would arouse more 
indignation than this accursed edict against our 
fellow-men. See yonder tottering woman, about 
to fall from hunger; see, she is almost naked, for 
some one has snatched from her her rich gar- 
ments. Who is there to protect her from the 
Arabs when they spy out her lovely form and 


298 


GARCILASO 


face? So will it be with Petonilla, unless I am 
aided of God to bring her assistance.” 

He was so wild, so distraught, I could never 
have believed that German heart could burn in 
such a manner. Indeed his loud and broken 
tones were like to bring us into intimate danger; 
so I cried out at the top of my voice, the better 
to drown his traitorous words, “O Holy Virgin, 
most spotless mirror of purity, by that exceeding 
charity which moved thee to visit thy holy cousin, 
Saint Elizabeth, obtain for us through thy inter- 
cession that our hearts being visited by thy divine 
Son — By my soul, Herbert, an thou break forth 
at such a rate, here were an end of Petonilla and 
Herbert and Garcilaso as well ! In heaven’s name, 
borrow the calmness of a Spaniard, and tell me 
what hath happened, and let me do my own 
moralizing. ” 

“Thou art right, Laso. This is the truth: 
when the Jews began to pour past the door of 
that humble home, one day Petonilla espied two 
of Korah’s daughters, who had been freed from 
their captivity, for they are aged and broken with 
suffering and shame. But the youngest sister is 
still in the Inquisition. When she saw them, 


DRIVEN FORTH TO PERISH 299 

Petonilla went out to them and embraced and 
kissed and went with them, saying they had 
saved her life in Piedmont, that their father had 
met death because he had befriended her, adding 
that she would share the fate of Korah’s chil- 
dren. So she has been with them ever since as 
if she were a Jewess, and though twice I risked 
my honor and life by going boldly into their 
midst and pleading with her and giving what 
arguments I had, she was sweet but resolute, 
kind but obdurate. Ay, Garcias, her tones were 
gentle as the smile of a little child, but her pur- 
pose, once hot and fierce, hath cooled in an iron 
mold, and it is fixed forever.” 

“And she will go with them to Africa?” 

“Ay, to Ercilla and thence to Fez, if they be 
not massacred or carried off before they reach 
that colony. And all I can do is to hover upon 
the outskirts and follow as best I may, so that at 
some deadly hour I may give my life for her. It 
is all that is left me — to die for Petonilla.” 

“Will she not even for thy love give over her 
madness?’ 

“I have not spoken of love,” said Herbert, 
“since the night of the conflagration.” 


3°° 


GARCILASO 


"‘Hast not?” I cried, amazed. “Now, why 
is this so?” 

“Can I speak to her of love,” said he, “when 
she is a fugitive from the law? Could I speak of 
love when she was in the baron’s castle? For 
she was at my mercy, seeing she was all alone. 
Could I press the advantage fortune had given 
me? What could she say but that she loved 
me?” 

“What, indeed!” said I. 

“Because,” said he, “she would think she 
owed me as much. And not upon the night of 
the conflagration would I have spoken of love, 
had I not been beyond the palisades of reason 
and calmness. So when she lived in my mother’s 
cot, upon our bounty, at our expense, under our 
protection, could I ask her for her love? Nay, 
how could I know but she would feel such love 
rather the payment of a debt than the bestowal 
of a free gift? I have been unfortunate, Garcias. 
First, thou wast her lover, so I could say no 
word. My great day was the day of the tourna- 
ment, when I fought for her dishonored colors. 
Then I was free to ask her love, but, alas! she 
turned away.” 


DRIVEN FORTH TO PERISH 


3 ox 


“Therefore,” said I, “in pleading with her to 
desert these miserable companions, these fugi- 
tives from the church — alas ! poor helpless maid- 
ens! — thou didst make no argument from love?” 

“Love!” said he. “How could I speak of 
love as she stood there in the dust, her arm 
about one of the fainting daughters of Korah, 
and I upon my good steed,, richly dressed, and 
breathing the breath of prosperity and health? 
It would have been as if I had said to her, 
‘Come, Petonilla, I saved thee from the Holy 
Brotherhood, I have fed and clothed thee for 
months past, I have done thus and thus for thy 
sake, come, now, give me thy love as payment. 
Nay, give it for thine own sake, to escape this 
poverty and misery. Give me thy love and I 
will give thee comfort, a home, a happy life. 
Leave thy unfortunate companions to their fate, 
take heed to thyself.’ Oh, I could not, Garcias, 
I could not!” 

“I understand thee not,” I said, in some dis- 
dain. “Thou seemest to suffer, thou hast cer- 
tain signs of one ill at ease, and yet thou wilt 
not try the nostrum that might heal the sickness. 
I understand thee not. Thou art no Spaniard. 


3° 2 


GARCILASO 


By the soul of Garcilaso, had he been in thy place 
upon bringing Petonilla to that castle, he would 
have found out very soon if she loved or no. 
Are such nice scruples to scare away the hope of 
happiness? Is Garcilaso a horse to shy aside 
from a purpose at every bit of paper that stirs 
in the breeze? Very soon I should have known 
how ran the current of her soul. Do my words 
move thee?” 

“Not a whit,” said he. “Thou hast not that 
fineness of spirit that is needful for my interpre- 
tation.” 

“Methinks,” said I, with sarcasm, “that thy 
fineness hath not brought thee much disport, my 
Lord de Metz. Thou and thy fineness of spirit 
have fared ill, meseems,” said I, cuttingly. 
“But tell me, Herbert, doth life in truth offer 
thee no other hope but the hope of dying?” 

“It does not,” said he, stoutly. 

“Then I will be kinder to thee than life,” said 
I, “for I offer thee a hope. It is this. If thou 
wilt rid me of that accursed spy (if he be a spy), 
that Antonio, I will bring thee Petonilla out of 
that muck and mire of Judaism,” I said. “I 
engage to persuade her with one word to leave 


DRIVEN FORTH TO PERISH 


303 


Korah’s daughters, whom she cannot aid. Wilt 
thou rid me of this Antonio this night?” 

“How rid thee?” said he, slowly. 

“Thou hast a dagger, ” said I, succinctly, 
“and he hath a back, and the night hath goodly 
clouds.” 

“I am no assassin,” he said, coldly. 

“I never thought as much,” I retorted. 
“What! is the killing of a dog an assassination? 
He is my enemy! Therefore, I prithee, put out 
his light for me.” 

He laughed in a curious wise. “But, Garcias, 
thou art not sure he is a spy.” 

“No; but I am sure he annoys me with his 
staring.” 

“And for this shall I murder him? Think, 
Laso ; would he have followed thee all the way 
from Guadaloupe, believing thee Garcilaso? 
Would he not long ago have called the priests to 
take thee? Would he dally now, since he hath 
seen thee with the old friend of Garcilaso?” 

“I have a thought,” said I. “It is this: he 
has been waiting all the time, hoping I would go 
unto Petonilla’s hiding-place, that thus he may 
secure two at a blow.” 


3°4 


GARCILASO 


‘‘That is well thought out,” said Herbert, 
with sudden thoughtfulness. “And thou thinkest 
thou canst persuade Petonilla to abandon her 
friends?” 

“I am sure, Herbert, I am sure.” 

“Then I agree to ease thee of the burden of 
Antonio’s staring. But I could not put out his 
light. I could not slay him. But I will capture 
him and bear him to a hiding-place where he 
shall be secure.” 

Now, I did not like that plan very well, for 
there never was an enemy secure until after he 
was dead. But I could get no better terms from 
the German, who had little spirit to my notion. 
He asked if I had formed any plot. I told him 
we must exchange our clothes, since Antonio 
would be deceived, in the darkness, into thinking 
him Garcilaso; therefore I should not be followed 
in my going to Petonilla. And that was impor- 
tant. He saw this and agreed. We got up from 
our knees and went forth to a field, where there 
was a certain cattle-shed, half-collapsed, and in 
truth it often seems to me that all the cattle- 
sheds of Spain were built leaning toward their 
downfall. Here we undressed, and Herbert 


DRIVEN FORTH TO PERISH 


305 


became a sailor and I a knight, once more a 
cavalier of Old Castile. 

We now returned to the road, where the Jews 
still poured along, a stream of miserable and 
noisy people. The torches in their hands lit up 
the scene, making it wild and picturesque and 
terrible. Scarce had we come into the glare when 
behold, Antonio ! He at once fastened his keen 
eyes upon Herbert. 

“Now is the time,” I whispered. “Lead him 
afield, while I steal to Petonilla. But he draws 
near. Let him not see thy face.” Then in a 
loud voice, I said, that Antonio might hear (and 
hear he did), “My friend, go now to the maiden 
and see. if she fares well!” 

Herbert bowed and turned away. He started 
toward the field where stood the cattle-shed. 
Antonio presently glided after him. Then I set 
forth upon one of the most romantic and sad 
adventures ever devised in the brain of an 
hidalgo of Spain. 


CHAPTER XXIII 

A DUEL AND MUCH TALK OF LOVE 

With a rapid stride I drew near the encamp- 
ment, where the wagons of the Jews formed a 
square. I was, as I have said, in complete armor 
dressed. My face was hidden by my visor; even 
my hands were safe from detection by steel 
gauntlets. And this was well, for Herbert’s 
hands were not as mine; for mine were long and 
slender, with the slim, supple fingers of an aristo- 
crat. My figure was not as heavy-set as his, I was 
something taller. But my coat of mail, and the 
gloom of the night, and the uncertain flickering 
of the remote torches (for there burned no lights 
in the encampment), stood me in good stead. If 
I could act well my part, speak with Herbert’s 
voice, and in his manner — a manner so foreign 
to my own — then — then would all be well. So 
I came up to the fence of wagons, and so 
great was the confusion of the scene, so wild, so 
weird, it might well be that I could accomplish 
my purpose undiscovered. But if it were found 
306 


A DUEL AND MUCH TALK OF LOVE 3°7 


that I, a Spaniard, had gone unto the Jews — 
well, that would go hard with Herbert ! 

I passed with difficulty between two wagons 
and stood in the square. All over the ground 
straw had been strewed, and upon this lay many 
bodies — men, women, and children — as they had 
been one family. It was too dark to distinguish 
one face from another. Here and there some 
one stirred, and a groan came to my ears, and the 
sound of weeping. But for the most part they 
lay in the rigid sleep of weariness and misery. I 
could not, in the darkness, venture among them, 
for fear of stepping upon some wretch, for they 
were packed close together, as beasts penned up 
for the slaughter. 

As I stood there, uncertain what to do, I saw 
a light approaching. I shrank against the wagon 
and trembled for my secret. A man came into 
the enclosure, bearing a torch. He stepped 
among the motionless forms, holding the blaze 
close to the ground. Suddenly he paused, and 
I could see a chain in his hand. It was a chain 
that bore a lock; a chain for some one’s wrists. 
Fear made me bold, and I started toward him, 
seeking to silence the clanking of my armor. I 


3°8 


GARCILASO 


was near enough to see the face upon which he 
threw his light ; it was the face of Petonilla. Ay, 
they had found her; they had come for her at 
last ! 

As the light burned near her head, Petonilla 
stirred, she moaned, she awoke. Her great 
troubled eyes stared wild into the evil face that 
bent over her. Then she gave a cry and threw 
her arms about the one who lay beside her, as if 
for protection. That one was a daughter of 
Korah, who now awoke and made moan. Then 
the man heard the clash of iron upon iron, and 
he turned and saw me drawing near. But he 
gave me only one scornful glance, for he thought 
me a Jew, then seized the arms of Petonilla and 
began to enchain them. Petonilla seemed struck 
dumb with the terror of her plight, but Korah’s 
daughter cried out, and the Jews awoke and 
tottered to their feet, wondering what new calam- 
ity had come upon them. But when they saw 
the cause of the outcry, they stood like statues, 
nor uttered one word of pleading for the prisoner. 
In all that crowd there was not one weapon 
(since weapons of all kinds were forbidden them), 
and had they been armed, ill would it have been 


A DUEL AND MUCH TALK OF LOVE 3°9 


for them to have struck one blow against the 
superior race which had its heel upon their neck. 

But there was one sword there ready to strike 
for Petonilla — ay, there was one sword there 
that leaped from its scabbard, that started toward 
that enemy as it had been a thing of life. He 
dropped Petonilla’s arms and the chain. He 
leaped up and drew his own sword, and faced me 
with, “Dog of a Jew! for this assault every 
man and woman and child in thy company shall 
perish miserably. But nay, yield me thy sword 
and I will pardon thee and let thy company 
escape with their lives. Rash fool, stand back!’’ 

“I am no Jew,’’ said I, “look to thyself!’’ 

“Then perish for thy folly!’’ he cried, making 
a pass at me. “Then perish as should perish 
every apostate Christian ! ’ ’ 

“Here is for Petonilla!’’ I said, driving for- 
ward my blade. But I saw ill, for the torch had 
fallen upon the ground, where it spluttered 
feebly, while no Jew dared lift it up. And no 
Jew dared come to my aid. 

He was a skillful cavalier, that swordsman. 
He made a right noble play. It was a keen and 
deadly sport. And if I could see ill, he could 


3 IQ 


GARCILASO 


see no better. Now, whereas I was completely 
defended by my armor, he was naked of defense. 
It was a marvel that I did not strike him down 
at once. But being without the weight of steel 
and iron, he was as nimble, as swift, as cunning 
as a truant schoolboy. Many a deadly pass I 
made at him, which he escaped in a manner 
almost incredible. And often his blade found 
me, but my suit of mail turned it aside, and I 
was unharmed. All the while he was seeking 
to plunge the point of his weapon between the 
bars of my visor, and so penetrate my brain. At 
first it was very easy to escape the onset — ay, it 
was play. But at last the terrible weight of my 
suit, and the weariness from springing back so 
oft, caused my breath to come in hurried and 
frequent gasps. But I pressed him hard, and he 
also became well-nigh spent, so at last, as by 
common consent, we paused to breathe. 

‘ ‘ My lord, ’ ’ said I , ‘ ‘ thou art a goodly antago- 
nist." 

“I thank thee well,” said he; “and I grieve 
to see so gallant a cavalier fall in so evil a cause.” 

“I am ready to defend that cause,” said I; 
“and had these Jews about me any spirit — ay, 


A DUEL AND MUCH TALK OF LOVE 31 1 


one spark of chivalry — they would set upon thee 
and so make an end.” 

What ! ” he cried. ‘ ‘ Wouldst have so unequal 
a contest? Nay, but they are dogs, and when 
I kick them out of my way, they dare not so 
much as yelp. But I wonder thou desirest to 
see me overborne by numbers instead of by 
valor!” 

“It were a good return,” I said, “seeing that 
thou makest war upon sleeping women. But in 
truth, thou art right, my lord; I should not have 
said the words, and thy pardon I crave.” 

“That is well said, gallant cavalier,” he 
cried, “for thou knowest if I chose to lift up my 
voice, I could bring a many loyal Spaniard hither 
who, seeing thee, a heretic, would set upon thee 
— ay, if they found thee fighting for Jews, they 
would degrade thee from thy knighthood. There- 
fore, I call not, for it is my wish to be good 
knight to thee.” 

“I like thee for those words, Seftor Un- 
known,” I returned. “And art thou ready to 
resume the play?” 

“Ay, ready. Look to thy face; it is there I 
seek to feel my way with the blade of my sword. ” 


3 12 


GARCILASO 


“And guard thy heart,” cried L “But in 
truth, my lord, I would we had better light, for 
thou art so nimble a shadow, so fleet a night- 
bird, I fear I cannot wing thee.” 

“If there be a Jew here,” he said, “who has 
resolution to hold up the light that it may stead 
us, I will not hold it against him when I have 
dispatched this courteous heretic.” 

There was no movement among the men, who 
stared upon us with their haggard eyes. “Well, 
well,” said I, “let us then to the sport. But I 
am no heretic, as St. James is my patron saint!” 

“That is soon to be proved,” said he, facing 
me. 

“Good my lord,” said the voice of Petonilla 
(she spoke to me), “would it aid thee to have 
more light?” 

“An I have it not,” said I, seeking to speak 
in a strange voice, “thy Herbert is like to be laid 
low!” Now I had so often heard Herbert’s 
tones, that in a degree I had caught the trick of 
their accent. She thought me Herbert. She 
gave a little cry. And then she caught up the 
torch and held it so that its light leaped high 
and gleamed upon our blades. 


A DUEL AND MUCH TALK OF LOVE 313 


"Now we may fight at our ease,” said my 
enemy. 

"Ready!” 

"Ready!” 

We began to play. 

Our rest had done us both good, but I soon 
began to weary again from my armor, whereas he 
seemed more alive, more alert than he had been 
at first. Back and forth we swayed, while Peton- 
illa kept step, holding the light to the combat 
that was to decide her fate. I wounded him 
more than once, but they were mere flesh- 
wounds, and the sight of his blood gave him 
a fiercer courage and a surer hand. His sword 
clashed upon my visor, my coat of mail; it even 
sought my mailed hand, but thus far I had not 
borne a scratch. 

And then the time seemed come when I was 
to make an end of that gallant foe. He had 
recoiled from a charge and shrank as if spent. 
So I leaped forward, to drive my sword through 
his heart. But his attitude of weariness had been 
a deceptive trick, for never was he more lithe and 
elusive. Quick as the stroke of a Christian, he 
leaped aside, and so great was my astonishment 


GARCILASO 


3H 

(for I had been sure of putting out his light), that 
I was thrown forward by the impetus of my 
attack. I staggered, I almost dropped my blade. 

Then that wily knight turned furiously upon 
me and sought to penetrate my visor. The 
point of his sword beat upon the bars, it felt its 
way to enter the helmet and put all to an end. 
My defense was feeble, I felt my time had come. 
His eyes shone sure and steadfast, his blows came 
quick and cunning, always toward the same 
point. But at the moment when my heart cried 
that all was lost — ah, then, at that instant out 
went the light! Ay, that instant Petonilla cast 
the torch upon the ground and with her foot 
trampled out its blaze. 

“Unfair!” cried the cavalier as his blade went 
wild in the sudden darkness. 

I had thrown forward my weapon to defend 
myself as best I could, and he ran full upon it 
and fell down at my feet. I heard him gasp, 
“ ‘ Sancta Maria , ora pro meV ” 

“Oh, my lord,” said I, kneeling beside him, 

‘ ‘ thou knowest that trick was not of my devising ! ’ ’ 
“ * Kyrie eleison' ” he groaned. 

“ ‘ Christe eleison ,’ ” I responded, throwing 


A DUEL AND MUCH TALK OF LOVE 315 


off my gauntlet and taking his hand. He returned 
my grasp feebly, thus telling me he held me for 
a true knight. But he looked upon himself as 
already departed, for he went on with the respon- 
sory for the dead: “‘Eternal rest give me, 0 
Lord.’ ” 

“ ‘And let perpetual light shine upon him,’ ” 
I murmured. 

“ ‘O Lord, hear my prayer.’ ” 

“ ‘And let my cry come unto Thee/ ” 

“ ‘ Kyrie eleison.' ” 

“ ‘ Christ e eleison.' " 

“ ‘ Kyrie — ’ ” and so he died. 

“Now, Petonilla, ” said I, rising, “come with 
me.’’ I took her hand and led her from the 
Jews, and out into a dark by-street, where we 
could be alone. “I have something to tell thee,” 
I whispered, “but beware how thy voice is raised, 
for at every window that looks down upon us 
may crouch a spy ; behind every door a form may 
stand ready to spring forth.” 

“My lord, what shall I do?” she whispered. 
“Petonilla, thou hast done an evil deed to- 
night — ” I paused, fearing she might detect my 
identity. 


3 16 


GARCILASO 


“What, Herbert! Wouldst thou have had 
me stand and hold a light to thy destruction?” 

“ ‘Unfair!’ ” I groaned. “It was his word. 
‘Unfair!’ ” 

“I could do nothing else,” she said, quietly. 
“But why hast thou called me away from my 
companions? Let me share the suspicion that 
must fall upon them from that dead body.” 

“Thou shalt never return to them,” I whis- 
pered. 

“Ah, my lord, let us not travel that road 
again. I have heard thee at length, but never 
yet hast thou shown me why I should desert my 
friends.” 

“Then go to them if thou wilt,” said I, in the 
calm, even tones of Herbert; “go to them if thou 
dost value their friendship more than my 
love!” 

“Thy love, my lord?” 

“Ay, my love, which has ever been true and 
tender for thee, Petonilla; my love which thou 
countest as naught. It is I who tell thee so!” 

“What sayest thou?” she faltered. “Nay, 
thou dost not love me, Herbert. In all the 
months gone by, has there been one word of love?” 


A DUEL AND MUCH TALK OF LOVE 317 


# 

“I would not speak of love,” said I, “lest 
thou think I demanded it as my right, Petonilla. 
Once thou didst doubt me cruelly. Do not repeat 
that fault. I tell thee I love thee as far and as 
passionately as a German heart may love. Such 
love as I can feel is thine. I know Garcilaso 
loves thee,” I continued, “and I know his love 
is wild and passionate, and thou . art as dear to 
him as the thought of home to a shipwrecked 
mariner. But I also love thee as much as I am 
able.” 

“Garcilaso!” she echoed. “Nay, my lord, 
right well I know his love is nothing, for already 
it sees its sun drawing near its western home. 
Speak not of him, Herbert. Do I not know thy 
heart! And if thou sayest there is love there 
for me — ” 

“I say it,” said I; “every beat of my heart 
is a beat for Petonilla. But as for Garcilaso, 
thou doest him wrong, for he will never cease to 
love thee until he lies cold and dead.” They 
were my words. 

“Good my lord,” said she, right cruelly, “I 
pray thee grieve not for thy friend, for his love 
hath the healing of forgetfulness under its wings. 


GARCILASO 


3 l8 

Tell me, oh, tell me, that this talk of love for me 
is not a sudden compassion, a sudden device, to 
separate me from my unhappy friends.” 

“Ever thou doubtest, Petonilla, ever thou 
wrongest me! But I swear to thee I have ever 
loved thee like as no man loves any woman save 
that woman he would have for his wife.” 

“Herbert!” said she, right gently. 

“Yes,” said I, “as much as a German may 
love, I love thee. My nature is naturally cold 
and even, my blood is sluggish, my mind is not 
quick and active, I am a student, I know not if 
I can make thee happy. Now, if thou lookest for 
fervent vows and passionate protestations, for a 
love like a flame, thou lookest toward me in Vain. 
I can make a tolerable husband, one thou mayest 
depend upon, one who will be kind and gentle 
and slow and unapt to catch thy flashing 
thoughts.” 

“Speak not thus, Herbert,” said she, drawing 
close to me. She took my ungloved hand in 
both of hers. “Well I know if love for me is in 
thy heart, it will shine forth to me steady and 
secure through all the storms of life.” 

“That love for thee is there,” said I. “Now 


A DUEL AND MUCH TALK OF LOVE 319 


wilt thou go with me and be with me forever- 
more?” 

“I will.” 

“And leave those wretched Jews?” 

“I will leave all for thee, Herbert, since thou 
lovest me.” 

Now I longed to take her up in my arms and 
kiss her face and hair a thousand times. Yes, I 
thought to cast aside my visor, to cast my hel- 
met upon the ground and lift her up and kiss her 
brow and cheeks and neck and hair, and finally 
come by sweet paths to her lips, and live there 
awhile. Yes, my heart burned and my blood 
danced. But there came the thought that her 
words were not for me — no, they were for Her- 
bert. I must still be Herbert, or all were lost. 
Now, what would Herbert do, were he standing 
thus with his hand in both hers. Would he lift 
her up against his breast and devour her with 
kisses? Not Herbert! What then? I thought 
most earnestly, till I believed I had his plan, and 
then I said: 

“Petonilla” (I used his calm tones), “tell me 
in so many words how lies the prospect of my 
hope?” 


3 2 ° 


GARCILASO 


“I love thee,” she said, softly. 

“Say it again,” said I, calmly. 

“Herbert!” 

“Say it,” said I. “How can I be sure after 
thou didst leave me for the Jews?” 

“Oh, Herbert! But indeed I love thee with 
all my heart.” 

“And dost thou take me for thy master?” 
said I. 

“Yes, dear Herbert, my own kind master.” 

“Here is my hand,” said I, “yield me fealty.” 

She kissed my hand. 

“Thou wilt with me to Germany?” 

“To the end of the earth, dear master.” 

“It is well,” said I, casting about in my mind 
for the next move. “Petonilla, I have not here 
that faded wreath which I so long warmed against 
my heart. But crown me. Come, crown me. 
I kneel at thy feet. Make a chain with thy sweet 
arms, make love’s sweet chain of tyranny, and 
hang it about my neck.” So she put her arms 
about me, but I could not see her face. 

Now I rested there a long time — oh, so long 
a time ! with her arms about me — and cruel coat 
of mail, to keep from me her warm, sweet pres- 


A DUEL AND MUCH TALK OF LOVE 321 


sure! But she was so near. I could have died 
content. And presently she said, “Herbert, thou 
knowest not what I do in the darkness.” 

“What is it, Petonilla?” 

“I wonder thou canst not feel through the 
iron. Now see if thou canst not guess.” 

Then I felt her breath upon my cheek, it came 
through the bars of my visor. “But what is it?” 
I asked. 

“Now wait,” said she. “There! Knowest 
not?” 

“That time I heard thee,” said I. For she 
had kissed the barrier that stood between my 
face and her lips. 

“Herbert,” said she with a fluttering voice, 
as if her breath were about to fail her ; ‘ ‘ Herbert, 
take away thy visor!” 

“No,” I said. 

“Herbert!" said she, right timidly. There 
was a yearning in her voice, a yearning for love. 
“Herbert, art thou very sure thou lovest me as 
I love thee?” 

“Oh, my darling, my precious love, my beau- 
tiful Petonilla,” I whispered, with fierce passion, 
and then reflection came, and I caught my 


322 


GARCILASO 


words as they rushed forth and turned them back 
and I said, with the dead calm of the German’s 
manner, “I do love thee, Petonilla, in that very 
wise, and it is I who tell thee so!” 

“ Herbert,” said she, once more, as she held 
my hand against her cheek, “remove thy visor!” 

I knelt a moment, very still and wretched, 
and oh, how I longed to take her at her 
words! But presently I spoke in a measured 
voice, “No, Petonilla.” And I arose and drew 
away from her embrace. I have fought a many 
good fight in my day. I have won a many 
splendid victory, but I count few of my 
triumphs greater than my victory of that night. 


CHAPTER XXIV 

HOW PETONILLA DID ME HARM 

The question now came to my mind, What 
was to be done? I looked at Petonilla as she 
stood there in the gloom. I listened to the con- 
fusion of the banished Jews. Cries and lamenta- 
tions made the night terrible. “Bread! bread!” 
came the wail of little children. 

“We have staid here too long,” said I. “The 
very stones will learn the tones of our voices, 
and cry out that thou art Petonilla and I — ” 
There I broke off, for I had forgotten I was 
Herbert. 

“I will go with thee wherever thou desirest,” 
said she, gently. I was sure of that, but my 
trouble lay in not knowing what I desired. The 
Sailors’ Inn was out of the question. True, I 
might go to some common fellow’s home and 
drag him from his bed and bid him give my lady 
a room and wait upon her. But suppose (and I 
did suppose it), suppose I took her to one who 
already had heard of her nearness? Now, was 
323 


GARCILASO 


3 2 4 

not the Inquisition close upon her path and mine? 
Was the cavalier who had slain himself upon my 
sword the only man who knew Petonilla was in 
Palos? And was Antonio the only man who had 
been watching me with snake-like eyes? 

* ‘ Come with me, ’ ' said I, in an unmoved voice, 
and I started toward the field and toward the 
cattle-shed whither Herbert had gone. I knew 
not what I should find there, but I hoped to dis- 
cover Herbert (dressed as Garcilaso) victorious 
over that same Antonio. What would there take 
place must be left to the future moment. But I 
was now wholly consumed by the desire to get 
Petonilla (much as I loved her) under the pro- 
tection of her German lover, and so be free to go 
as I pleased. 

We found ourselves in intense darkness, and 
we stumbled along that field, finding, as it 
appeared, every clod that rose above its fellow 
and every broken plank that had been cast from 
its moorings. However, I contrived by dint of 
many bruises to get my lady to the deserted 
building. When I had come to the roof that 
projected forward over an open space, where 
much straw lay, I called, cautiously, “Garcilaso!” 


HOW PETONILLA DID ME HARM 325 


“I am here!” called back Herbert. 

“So is Petonilla,” said I, softly. “Nay, art 
thou alone?” 

“Quite alone,” said he. 

“It is well, ” said I. “Yes, I have persuaded 
my lady to leave those Jews, and it is I who tell 
thee so. It is Herbert who hath accomplished 
this feat.” 

“Ah!” said he. “Let me hear her voice.” 

“Garcilaso,” called Petonilla, softly, “wilt 
thou not come forth and greet me?” 

“That I cannot,” said the German, and he 
spoke in a manner foreign to him, as if he had 
borrowed my voice. Now, perhaps he fancied he 
imitated my thought and speech, but I could see 
he was in no wise similar to the proud Spaniard. 
I wondered how Petonilla could be deceived. 
He went on to say, “I am bound by a vow, 
lovely and adorable Petonilla; I am bound by a 
vow never to leave this place until I hear thee 
with thine own voice speak these gentle words, 
' I love Herbert for,” said he, “the whole soul 
of Garcilaso is wrapped up and infatuated with 
the desire that thou and Herbert become man and 
wife. Ay, Petonilla, once I loved thee, and 


326 


GARCILASO 


could have laid down my life for thy sweet sake ; 
but now I have become as a brother , a tender, 
gentle brother , and I would lay down my life to 
see thee and Herbert wed. No man was ever as 
brave and valiant and strong as I,” he went on, 
“no man was ever wiser, and I never gleaned one 
paring of my wisdom out of any book. And 
therefore being as I am, perhaps, the greatest 
knight in Christendom, well may my brotherly 
love bring thee delight ! Therefore, sweet lady, 
say the words I have begged of thee.” 

I heard a ripple of laughter in her voice as she 
said, quite clearly, “I love Herbert!” 

“ ’Tis well,” said the wretched impostor, 
“and I shall die content. And Herbert, come 
hither, I pray thee, and leave the maiden a 
moment. I need thee for the releasing of my 
vow. ’ ’ 

So I went forward and came to his side. He 
was upon his knees, and I found the form of a 
recumbent man beside him. “Garcilaso,” he 
whispered, “thou art come at a proper time. 
Here we have our Antonio securely gagged and 
bound. But as I live, it took all thy clothes to 
make me ropes wherewith to enchain him. For 


HOW PETONILLA DID ME HARM 3 2 7 


if thou wilt feel me, thou wilt perceive my 
bareness of attire, so that I be ready to crawl 
into bed, but not to step forth into the eyes of 
man.” 

“Now, what is to be done?” I demanded; 
“for when I return thee thy suit, how can I 
clothe myself in thy nakedness? Why didst thou 
not rip up this low fellow’s garments to make 
his ropes out of his own furnishings? By my 
faith,” said I, right hotly, “thou hast made a 
pretty scene in this night’s tragedy! Hadst thou 
followed my advice, he would be lying with a 
blade through his heart, and no need of ropes 
and gags, for death would have roped and gagged 
him better than thou!” 

“Well, well,” said he, rising, “give me my 
armor and let me forth to Petonilla as my true 
self. If she discover thee in my harness, all thou 
has wrought will be in vain. And she would 
soon spy thee out. Come! be not downcast. 
I have yet enough of thy sailor’s dress to hide 
thy legs from the world.” 

“And am I a merman,” said I, fiercely, “to 
roam the world naked to my middle?” 

“Herbert!” called Petonilla, “why dost thou 


3 28 


GARCILASO 


linger? I am much afraid out here in the night. 
Come back to me, my lord.” 

“I cannot come just yet,” called Herbert. 
4 ‘Behold, when I came hither (in my armor), 
what did I find but Garcilaso bound hand and 
foot, and lying upon the ground. And it is very 
hard to unloose him. So rest content; I will 
come when he is freed. Some low enemy hath 
fallen upon him.” 

Petonilla uttered a sweet cry of compassion. 

‘‘Now, quick!” whispered the wily German; 
“let us exchange our garments.” So we drew 
aside to the wall of the shed. 

“May I not come in?” said Petonilla. “Per- 
chance I can help, for I am very apt in unloosing 
knots.” 

“Come in an thou wilt,” said Herbert, “but 
come not hither, my lady. Abide under the 
roof, however, that thou be not afraid.” 

We heard her feeling her way. “Is he not 
yet freed?” she aked, presently. “Indeed, Her- 
bert, thou art very slow to release my very good 
friend.” 

“In truth,” said he, “I am not now striving 
at the knots, for I have dropped something upon 


HOW PETONILLA DID ME HARM 329 


the ground, and I search for it. Come not near, 
my lady, lest thou sweep it past recovery.” 

“And wilt thou leave Garcilaso to pine in 
chains while thou seekest for a lost object, Her- 
bert?” said she, reproachfully. 

“Oh, I will come to him presently,” returned 
Herbert, getting into his clothes with what dis- 
patch he could. 

“Poor Garcilaso!” cried Petonilla. “Ah! ah! 
What, wilt thou say no word to me, to show 
thou art still my good friend?” 

I said nothing, for in truth I was so enraged 
over my scanty dress, that I had much ado not 
to cry out Herbert’s ungallant behavior. 

“Thou art offended at thy friend,” said she, 
softly. “I could not have thought Herbert 
would treat thee so. But rest content. I will 
be good lady to thee. Ah, here is a dagger upon 
the ground. Some one hath dropped it.” 

“It is mine,” said Herbert. For a time there 
was no conversation in the shed. Herbert and 
I were busy. At last he cried, “Here it is! 
Here is what I sought. Now I will come to 
thee, Garcilaso, and release thee.” 

“There is no need,” said Petonilla, coldly, 


33° 


GARCILASO 


“I have been better friend to him than thou. 
There, good knight, that stroke sets thee free. 
Rise my lord !” 

“My lady,” cried Herbert, “what is thy 
meaning? What words are these?” 

“Rise, dear Garcilaso,” said she, “and for- 
give him, for he doth not mean to despite thee. 
Nay, it is but his way, which once even I failed 
to comprehend.” 

What footsteps are those?” cried Herbert, 
starting forward, now completely clothed. 

“By my faith,” I shouted, “she hath released 
that accursed Antonio!” And so she had, and 
we could hear him running away across the field. 

I turned upon Herbert and I said, with cut- 
ting dignity, “The next time Garcilaso advises 
thee as touching the remedy that lies in the 
stroke of a blade, I trust thou wilt not prescribe 
another medicine.” 

“What thing is this?” cried Petonilla, all 
amazed. 

“My dear lady,” said Herbert, gently, “fret 
not because of thy mistake. Thou hast freed 
our enemy; it is no great matter. Thou 
thoughtest to do well, therefore who can chide 


HOW PETONILLA DID ME HARM 33 1 


thee? Yet blame thyself if thou wilt, so I may 
be thy lawyer and clear thee before the tribunal 
of thy conscience, with the eloquence of my love. ’ ’ 

Now, if Antonio had been pursuing him 
instead of me , I wonder if he would have made 
so light of the matter? We abode there a brief 
space, discussing what were best to be done. 
But as it seemed better to remain anywhere 
rather than in that cattle-shed, we soon fared 
forth into the field. At last it ended in this wise: 
Herbert took Petonilla to his inn, whither he had 
announced, upon his first arrival, he expected his 
wife to follow him. For he had always hoped 
to prevail upon Petonilla to desert the Jews. 
Therefore he bore Petonilla thither as his wife, 
who had come after him from some town of 
Andalusia. When he had placed her in his room, 
he returned to me, bearing me other clothes, 
which I was well able to purchase. For although 
I had spent Margaret’s gold, I had most of my 
four months’ pay. 

When I was attired, I set out for La Rabida, 
and abode in the monastery until the day of our 
departure for India. As for Herbert and Peto- 
nilla, they left Palos the same night, and he took 


33 2 


GARCILASO 


her to his mother, with whom she was now well 
content to remain. I felt secure at La Rabida, 
where, posing as a pilgrim once more, I was very 
well entreated. I felt sure no Catholic would 
seek me in a very nest of Catholicism. I was 
right. At least, Antonio came no more to vex 
me. I thought I was rid of him at last! I was 
more sure, when, on the night of the second of 
August, I slipped from my narrow cell and gained 
Palos and the deck of my vessel, attired as be- 
fitted a companion of Columbus. And so, upon 
the third of August, which was a Friday (and we 
ate no meat), we put to sea, the Pinta, the Nina, 
and the Santa Maria, in which last rode Garcilaso. 

As for the year, as I have said before, it was 
1492 ; a year that saw two of the greatest events 
in our history. Yes, blessed in the memory of 
man is 1492, chiefly because it saw the stiff- 
necked Jews, who had begun, in their insolence 
of wealth and infidelity, to lift up their horns, 
swept from our fair land ; and for a second reason, 
which in the sequel proved scarce less important, 
because it saw the departure of Columbus (and 
Garcilaso) on that marvelous journey toward an 
unknown world. 


CHAPTER XXV 

HOW I SAILED WITH COLUMBUS 

The heart of Garcilaso leaped with a melan- 
choly enthusiasm when he realized that at last 
he was leaving his native land, never, perhaps, to 
return, and that, at the same time, he was ventur- 
ing forth into the unknown ocean. He had found 
at Palos that it was possible to remain in the 
country and escape detection, at least if he was 
willing to eclipse his glory in a mean disguise. 
But this the haughty spirit of Garcilaso could 
not endure. His danger from the Inquisition 
urged him away; the memory of Petonilla and 
of his love for her so saddened his heart, that 
had there been nothing for him but honors and 
fetes, his soul would not have been lifted up. 
Indeed it seemed to the cavalier that all peace, 
all joy, was at an end. And so he saw the land 
recede from sight, with a stern, undaunted brow. 
There was no man upon the Santa Maria in whom 
he could confide. They were below him in 
station, they were mean and common folk, 


333 


334 


GARCILASO 


unable to enter into the high thoughts and 
generous passions of a noble. 

Of course, I do not count Columbus in this 
class. Although he had sprung from an obscure 
family of Genoa (for his father was none other 
than a wool-comber), yet this great man had risen 
above his station, by associating daily with lofty 
thoughts and purposes inspired by religion and 
profound wisdom. Doubtless he could in a 
measure have understood me ; but so engrossed 
was he with his success and with his direction of 
the ships and with his diary and with his dreams, 
that I cared not to win a fragment of his mind. 
The man to whom I give my confidences must 
yield me all his attention and care. I knew if I 
told him of Petonilla, he would look upon me 
with half an eye and confuse her with India and 
the great Khan. So I held my thoughts to 
myself and let them eat into my heart, and I 
was silent, gloomy, and severe. 

On the third day, the Pinta put up signals of 
distress. We soon learned that her rudder was 
broken. The reason was clear: the owners had 
disabled her so she would be spared the risks of 
the great voyage. We would have made up to 


HOW I SAILED WITH COLUMBUS 335 


her to aid her in this strait, but there was a 
strong wind that forbade a near approach. The 
captain (it was Martin Pinzon) made shift to keep 
the rudder true by means of ropes, but on the 
fourth day these stays gave way, and we all 
shortened sails to keep near each other. What 
was to be done? The admiral (for the son of the 
Genoese wool-comber had become nothing less) 
determined to land at the Canaries and there pro- 
cure a new vessel. We went slowly forward, 
while a dismal doubt existed in many minds as 
to the proximity of the islands. However, on 
the morning of the seventh day the Canaries 
came in sight, and confidence in the accuracy of 
our admiral’s knowledge was strengthened. 

For three weeks we sailed among the islands, 
seeking a new vessel, but whenever it was told 
that we meant to fare forth into the great 
unknown sea, ship-masters disappeared, so that 
we were obliged to retain the Pinta. A new 
rudder was made and we set forth again, even 
sadder than when we left Spain, and with more 
reason; both because we had seen the peak of 
Teneriffe sending forth flames (as if the devil was 
getting his fires ready for our poor bodies), and 


33 6 


GARCILASO 


because news came from Ferro that a Portuguese 
fleet was hovering near, with the intent to cap- 
ture us and seize upon our vessels. 

On the thirty-fifth day of our departure from 
Palos we put off from Gomera, keeping an 
anxious outlook for the Portuguese pirates, 
though I am free to confess there were not a few 
among us who longed to be captured and carried 
back to a godly land. This suspense was aug- 
mented by a detestable calm which befell us and 
which kept our ships three days near the shore, 
with sails dangling shamelessly. On the third 
day of the calm an incident occurred which gave 
us something to think about other than terrors 
and mysteries. The Santa Maria was standing 
out to sea, for the first breath of a breeze had 
kissed her outstretched wings, and the Pinta still 
hugged the shore. Between us was the Nina. 
As I stood upon the deck of the farthest vessel, 
I looked toward the land, and behold! a man 
stood upon the margin, as if he would leap into 
the tide. Nay, he did leap, he buffeted the 
waves, he swam to the Pinta and was taken 
aboard. ‘ ‘ Now, this is some crazy man, ’ ’ thought 
I, “some man bereft, for who would go upon this 


HOW I SAILED WITH COLUMBUS 337 


voyage unless forced or driven by sorrow or mad- 
ness?” He was taken below and though I stood 
a long time watching the deck of the Pinta 
through a glass, that adventurer did not reap- 
pear. So night came on and gave an edge to 
our wonder. 

Up rose the sun the next morning with a 
goodly wind in his arms which he flung upon the 
sea. We were carried out into the great un- 
known, and we saw the last of the Canaries grow 
dim and ever dimmer, and at last fade from our 
eyes. And then, indeed, we felt that our mad 
enterprise had begun, for before us lay all the 
terrors of a world peopled by monsters of a thou- 
sand fantastic tales. The sailors moaned, they 
wept, they called the names of their loved ones, 
whom they scarce hoped to see again. And 
many implored God to forgive them for ventur- 
ing into the realms which He had reserved to 
Himself for His own peculiar purposes from the 
foundation of the universe. 

The hope of finding land in the midst of such 
a boundless ocean, of finding dry land where 
there was naught but millions of leagues of sheer, 
vacant water, seemed mad indeed. And when 


338 


GARCILASO 


the mariners clustered in shuddering groups and 
whispered of the curious creatures that dwelt in 
the caves at the bottom of the sea — some of them 
with bodies of women, and with hair that is long 
and with arms that can tear open the stoutest 
keel — then in truth, for a brief moment, Garci- 
laso forgot his sorrow for Petonilla, and took 
some thought to his own precarious situation. 
Now those I speak of are the curious monsters 
who fall in love with men, and having no manner 
of shame, nor any regard whatever for their ties, 
as to whether they be already the husband of 
some lady, seize upon their bodies and kiss away 
their breath, and then suck their blood for very 
love of it. Moreover these mariners muttered 
of things that had been seen in the air. And 
they said any moonlight night he who dared look 
into the seas might behold the bodies of dead men 
with their glassy eyes rolled back at the sky. 

We were waxing into a fine state of alarm 
when Columbus called us. And he delivered to 
us a speech so glowing with hope and high 
resolve, and so chained together and bulwarked 
with logic, and so permeated with the certainty 
of lighting upon India in a brief space, that he 


HOW I SAILED WITH COLUMBUS 339 


put fresh heart into those men ; as for Garcilaso, 
nothing could make him glad or sorry. On the 
evening of this day the Pinto drew alongside for 
company, and we exchanged shouts; and we 
were told how the man who had boarded her lay 
ill from a cold he had found in the sea and his 
wet clothes; but that he was a right resolute 
person, with a high resolve to see the end of this 
matter. We asked his name, but our ships 
drifted apart before the answer came. 

On the fortieth day, when we had traveled 
one-fourth of the journey, according to the cal- 
culations of Columbus, we came upon a floating 
mast which had been a long time in the water. 
Ah, who can tell the mystery of that fragment, 
or from what vessel it had been torn, or the fate 
of the unfortunate voyagers? Well might it be, 
said some, that the great hand which was known 
to reach out of the clouds in this region, had 
torn the ship to pieces, had crushed the crew 
in its gigantic fingers, and had dropped them into 
the ocean! Might we not encounter such a fate? 
And perchance our three vessels would drift, 
drift back to Spain, driven by the wings of 
strange creatures that are heard at night. 


34° 


GARCILASO 


On the forty-second day there was much 
more solid ground for alarm. For behold! the 
compass no longer pointed north. How, then, 
could we tell whither we went, and how could 
we hope to return? It must be, we thought, 
that in this region all things were different ; per- 
haps there was no north, no south ; and surely 
there was no land. So the ships came to a stand- 
still, and mutiny rose in the breasts of the crew. 
But Columbus invented a theory that would 
account for the change, and he expounded it 
with such logic that doubts were dispelled. A 
heron came to his aid on the forty-third day, for 
such birds do not venture far to sea, therefore 
the heron meant a small island, at the least. And 
where that heron came from I could never deter- 
mine, but he must have been a long and a steady 
flier, for never a patch of land saw we — nay, not 
a clod upon which he could have nested. Also a 
tropical bird we spied, and at night the sky was 
filled with wondrous flames, for stars left their 
fixed and appointed stations and sallied across 
the blue dome with lightning speed. I thought 
it strange that from now following the wind blew 
steadily toward the west, as if Columbus had 


HOW I SAILED WITH COLUMBUS 341 


called it up, by a mystic power, for his very 
purpose. 

The day after the mutiny Garcilaso stood idle 
upon the deck, looking aimlessly through his 
glass, watching the sparkle of the sunlight upon 
the rushing tide — the long white path left by the 
Nina, which had passed forward to starboard. 
Then, still without purpose, his glass focused 
upon the deck of the Pinta, and he saw Pinzon 
and his crew at work, passing to and fro, some- 
times leaning over the sides with fearful eyes, 
not knowing upon what marvels they might rest. 
Suddenly Garcilaso uttered a sound, an angry 
and startled exclamation, and the glass fell from 
his hand and rolled at his feet upon the rocking 
deck. The danger of losing it into the sea 
brought him to himself. He caught it with his 
foot, he took it up, and now he stared with all 
his might upon the deck of the Pinta. His idle 
manner, his thoughtless look, was gone. Yes, 
yes; there, standing upon the consort’s deck, 
standing at the railing, looking out to sea, was 
Antonio! It was the same tall, lank form — ay, 
it was the same smooth-shaven face, the same 
evendined lips, and Garcilaso fancied he saw 


34 3 


GARCILASO 


the same covert, watchful gleam in the quick 
eyes. 

Now, why was he there? What did this 
mean? Surely this was the man who had boarded 
the vessel at Gomera, and who, since then, had 
lain ill from his cold. Why else should he be 
there, except for the purpose of hounding me to 
the ends of the earth? For this reason he had 
come. Ay, over that trackless waste, that ter- 
rible unknown sea, the arm of the Inquisition was 
stretched! Earth had no hiding-place from the 
eye of the Church. But still I was perplexed, 
amazed. If he had such resolution, this spy, 
Antonio, why had he not told Pinzon, on board- 
ing the Pinta, of my disguise. Had he done so, 
Columbus must have given me up. What was 
the meaning of this reprieve, this show of mercy? 
I puzzled over it, I could reach no answer. 
Antonio had had me in his power more than 
once, why had he let me escape? 

This uncertainty kept me awake that night. 
The next morning I sought out Seftor Pedro 
Gutierrez. I had become in a manner acquainted 
with him, for he was the only man in my vessel 
worthy in any wise to converse with me, seeing 


HOW I SAILED WITH COLUMBUS 343 


that the sailors were low and base fellows; but 
Gutierrez was a gentleman of the king’s bed- 
chamber. 

“Sefior Gutierrez,” said I, “I wish to state 
a condition to thee, and learn the cause. Now 
one of the sailors hath told me his history,” said 
I, shrewdly, “and he hath committed a great 
offense against king and country. Such being 
the case, nevertheless when the state’s officers 
had him in their fingers, they let him go. And 
yet,” I continued, “they let him know very 
plainly that they still had a mind to seize upon 
him at some future day.” 

“They are faithful officers,” said he. 

“Ay, faithful enough,” said I, dryly. “The 
Blessed Virgin reward them as they deserve! 
But that is not the point. This is the mystery; 
in the mind of this low sailor, this is the 
point — ” 

“By my troth,” cried he, “thou speakest as 
if thou wert not one of this same base crew!” 

“Nay, nay,” I cried, remembering myself, 
“we be all dolts and common folk; I had no such 
thought. But this fellow wonders why the officers 
let him escape when they might have taken him.” 


344 


GARCILASO 


“I can rede thee this riddle,” he said, with a 
lofty smile. “Knowest not, my man, that the 
king hath pardoned every sailor in this enter- 
prise, of all his offenses, until two months after 
his return? Thy rude companion is safe from 
any officer — nay, from the Pope himself — until 
he shall have been two months returned, if any 
man return, from this accursed India.” 

So, there was my explanation. I know not 
why I had not chanced to learn of this favor from 
the king; doubtless my mind had been anchored 
upon other thoughts, in other seas of love and 
sorrow. After my conversation with Gutierrez, 
my mind was distracted from the incidents of the 
journey in brooding upon Antonio. The thought 
of him grew warm within me and bred hatred 
that caused my heart to leap up in a blaze ; and 
could I have come at him, it would have been 
the worse for one of us. Now, a fearful thing 
was this hate; it consumed all fear of our enter- 
prise, all joy in the beauty of the world, all 
tender recollections of Petonilla. Ever I saw 
but one form, the form of Antonio; ever I heard 
but one voice in my ears, his treacherous voice! 
When we began to find weeds floating in the sea, 


HOW I SAILED WITH COLUMBUS 345 


and after, when we saw them every day, and 
they grew in number and size, until they covered 
the entire surface of the water, it was still the 
same. No joy, no hope, only the desire to reach 
Antonio’s throat! Now, on one occasion, I pro- 
cured a live crab that did perch upon that strange 
herbage, a crab large and subtle, which, however, 
I made prisoner; and Columbus preserved the 
beast as a trophy. There was one rebellion that 
almost proved fatal to Columbus, and there were 
moments of bright hope (to the others) whenever 
Pinzon saw one of his clouds and cried it an 
island. On one occasion, I remember, his cloud 
(and he had a marvelous faculty of spying them 
out) looked so much like land, that we offered 
up the ‘‘Gloria in Excelsis!” But, as it proved 
by the morning light, we had praised God for 
nothing. 

Sometimes we leaped into the sea and swam 
about, for the water was calm, and the deck 
intolerable. Once I saw Antonio spring naked 
into the water, and though he was far away, it 
was in my mind to swim out and strive with him 
and see which were a better man. So in I 
plunged and struck forth with all my might; 


34 6 


GARCILASO 


but in some wise the coldness of the water chilled 
my hate, and soon I turned about and regained 
the Santa Maria, and his blood was not upon my 
hands. I longed to take one of the sailors into 
my purpose and hire such a one to pick him 
off from among the living, but I dared not broach 
this pretty plot to any. 

Not to prolong my tale, nor harp upon the 
mutinous doings of the sailors — for they waxed 
desperate, they were low fellows- — nor set forth 
how Columbus avoided many a dangerous scene 
by his polished urbanity, which came not natu- 
rally to him (since he had been born in the station 
previously set forth), let me come jump to that 
night when all of us looked forth to see land with 
more certainty than we had ever looked. The 
Pinta was ahead, and Pinzon stood at her prow 
straining his eye for a land that would not resolve 
itself into vapor. Never an eye was closed that 
night, for Columbus told us we were at the end 
of our journey (though how he knew is more than 
I can tell). Nay, I think it was a bold stroke upon 
his part, the last bold stroke, and had he failed — ? 

In the excitement of the hours, Antonio 
slipped from my mind, or at least remained 


HOW I SAILED WITH COLUMBUS 347 


there but as a gloomy background to dazzling 
fancies. I was as confident as Columbus ap- 
peared. Surely heaven could have sent no clearer 
proofs of the nearness of land. From what but 
land had come these weeds, birds, crabs, planks, 
trees, and the like? Verily, everything had been 
wafted toward us but human beings! 

Now I stood upon deck, and by me was Pedro 
Gutierrez, of whom I have spoken, for he was 
the gentleman of the king’s bedchamber. He 
was relating to me his hopes, and how he would 
be happy in his home on his return to Spain (if 
he ever saw his way thither), and how he would 
carry back much gold, and never voyage again. 
And, as for me, I listened with a sad heart, for 
if we succeeded, what hope had I, seeing I had 
lost Petonilla? And if we failed, little had I to 
lose. Now, as we stood talking, and in the mean- 
time gazing abroad, Columbus, who stood upon 
the top of the castle, called unto Pedro, saying, 
“Come hither, Don Pedro — ” and his voice 
trembled. 

Then Pedro went forward, and our admiral 
pointed his long arm and said: “Am I deceived, 
or is yonder a glimmering light?” 


34 8 


GARCILASO 


“It is a light,” said Pedro. 

Then Columbus called Rodrigo Sanchez de 
Segovia: ‘‘Come hither, come hither, Sefior 
Don Rodrigo!” And when he had gone up he 
was asked the same question. 

“Nay, I see no light,” Sanchez replied. 

But as they continued standing, all three saw 
it — sweet beams — and not long after, they were 
visible to me. It appeared as a light, tossing in 
a boat, or as a torch borne by one who walks to 
and fro. But suddenly it vanished, and we saw 
nothing, nor knew what to think. But at two 
o’clock in the morning we were startled by a 
sudden sound ; it was the report of a gun from 
the Pinta, followed by a wild shout. And now 
but two leagues away, there loomed up in the 
night a shape, a form, and it was land! 

Ay, it was land, and never had white men 
looked upon that land before! There it had lain 
for centuries and centuries. While the Pyramids 
were being built, and while the kings of Egypt 
and of Babylon were living, hating and dying, 
while the empires of Greece and Rome rose and 
decayed, while the Christ was living in the world, 
and when he was crucified, this land had been 


HOW I SAILED WITH COLUMBUS 349 


lying as now it lay, awaiting its discoverer. And 
if ever you hear the wicked and the ungrateful 
heap reproaches upon my land, and cast obloquy 
upon its great men, and jeer at the name of Spain, 
tell such a one — ay, tell him that it was Spain, 
it was my land, that rescued the New World 
from oblivion and gave it, a garden of delight, 
to brave men and fair women. 


CHAPTER XXVI 

I TAKE LEAVE OF ANTONIO 

It was on the twelfth of October, and a Fri- 
day, that our eyes beheld that strange and primi- 
tive land. Columbus, in rich attire, set forth in 
his boat from the Santa Maria, carrying the royal 
standard. He was surrounded by the chief men 
of the three crews (among whom should have 
been Garcilaso), and after them came the com- 
mon mariners (among whom was Garcilaso, for 
he was a disguised hidalgo). They knelt and 
kissed the earth and rendered thanks to God, 
calling the place San Salvador. But there was 
one in that company who, even while he kissed 
the earth, or, to be more particular, a flower that 
grew therein, had his eyes on guard for an 
enemy. That one was he whom I have twice 
mentioned; I mean Garcilaso. This knight was 
ever looking for the spy, Antonio, and at last he 
saw him upon the outskirts. 

But how could one keep his thoughts bent to 
the sharp edge of hate, when all about were the 
35o 


I TAKE LEAVE OF ANTONIO 


35 1 


wonders of a new world? We were surrounded 
by a swarm of marvelous red creatures, natives 
of that place, one of whom was a female. They 
were all of excellent mien, and their forms were 
very proper and symmetrical, which we could the 
better observe seeing that they were as naked as 
the back of my hand, save for curious, quaint 
paintings. When I had, in some degree, grown 
accustomed to their frank appearance, I began 
to edge my way through our men to make up to 
Antonio. He, as if scenting my purpose, held 
off, nor could I get near, for he took as many 
steps as I, at the same time retreating as by acci- 
dent, for he never met my eye. Now, what 
means this inquisitor to do, thought I, and 
where will it end? By my troth, thought I, I 
must bring this thing to an end with my own 
right hand! But the time is not yet, for the 
first landing in a newly discovered world must 
not be sullied by rage or bloodshed. So I was 
content to bide my time, which contentment he 
seemed to share with all his heart. Therefore, 
for the present I sought to banish him from my 
mind, well knowing I could find him when the 
time had come to put out his light. For, by St. 


35 2 


GARCILASO 


James! what am I, to be tracked and dogged 
from one end to the other end of the world, 
though my shadow-foe be the most holy and dis- 
creet spy that was ever fashioned by the hands of 
the blessed Inquisition? Did my mean disguise 
make my spirit in any wise less haughty and 
lofty? Was this tracking and watching to be 
borne by a Garcilaso de la Vega? So, let none 
blame that I thought to wash my sword in his 
blood. It was a faithful spy, it is true, but there 
were more in plenty where he came from. 

I pass over our discoveries of other islands, 
and of our doings with the wild creatures of that 
land, to describe a curious change that came 
upon me. Now, I awoke one morning to find that 
I was a changed man. It may be that the sights 
I had seen, such as had never been dreamed of 
by the wildest and most persistent dreamer, had 
lifted up my mind and bent it round from its 
accustomed state, turning the index of my brain 
from its north (I mean Petonilla). I draw my 
figure from the compass. Now, as the com- 
pass had deflected and veered aside, unable to 
stick to its post in its unwonted surroundings, so 
the brain of Garcilaso became confused with a 


I TAKE LEAVE OF ANTONIO 


353 


many thought other than the thought of the 
beautiful Piedmontese. 

So, as I said, one morning it came to me with 
a sharp pang, a sudden shock, that I no longer 
loved Petonilla. Now, was this a true thought, 
and had I ceased to love? What! was the old 
Garcilaso dead, indeed? It was a marvelous 
thing! I could not be sure but I might get back 
to my north on returning to Spain. Now, I 
began to brood over Petonilla, to remember how 
she had thrown down the torch when the unknown 
knight was about to end my days. Indeed, it 
had been a most ungallant act, an act unchival- 
rous. True, it had saved my life, that trick of 
hers, but it had cost that valiant foe his last 
breath. I did not like Petonilla very well for 
that deed ; it was unworthy the image I had 
formed of her in my thoughts. And then I 
remembered (a thing I had little dwelt upon) 
that her soft words and her kissing of my visor 
had been meant not for me — ah, no, but for a cold 
and unworthy German! And Petonilla began to 
be less fair and perfect in my mind, because she 
could feel love for such a curious and unknightly 
foreigner. 


354 


GARCILASO 


When Columbus determined to leave a colony 
in this new world, Garcilaso proposed to form 
one of the number. Spain had no longer an 
attraction for him, seeing that he could abide 
there no longer than two months, and, more- 
over, knowing that its scenes would remind him 
of the happiness he had lost. No, let him remain 
in this new land, to live a new life, with his past 
dead and buried. And so, farewell to Petonilla 
and Margaret, to Herbert and Pulgar, to Ponce 
and all true knights, to king and queen ! 

The fortress of The Nativity began to be 
built. In the solemn evenings when work was 
done, Garcilaso would stroll through the primeval 
woods, and, having sought out an Indian trail 
(for we called the wild creatures Indians, because 
they were the aborigines of India), the cavalier 
would often be thrilled by the thought that never 
had the feet of white men pressed this sod, never 
had the eyes of the superior race witnessed this 
luxuriant scenery. Then he would try to think 
of the Old World, and to wonder what his friends 
were doing, and if there were gay tournaments. 
Sometimes — this was near the time for Columbus 
to set sail — a terrible lonesomeness would fall 


I TAKE LEAVE OF ANTONIO 


355 


upon him, so that he could scarce breathe in that 
virgin world, and the thought of being left there 
caused his heart almost to cease its beating. 
Now many of those who were to stay began to 
talk of Indian wives, such as they might mate 
with during their waiting — nay, some went 
farther than mere talking about it. But, as for 
Garcilaso, the thought of those females without 
garments or the Blessed Virgin, sickened his soul. 

The day before the final leave-taking, as I 
wandered sorrowful and gloomy in my accus- 
tomed haunts, I discovered Antonio following 
me. The time at last had come! My reflections 
had made me desperate, and his stealthy foot- 
steps caused my blood to boil. I wheeled about, 
and he started to run from me. His foot caught 
in the root of a tree; he fell upon his face. 
I sprang forward with all my speed. He rose to 
his knees, and looked back and saw me coming 
with my drawn sword. He had struck his fore- 
head upon a stone, so that the blood trickled 
down his cheek. He read my eyes, and yet he 
showed no fear. Before he could stand up, I 
had thrown myself upon him, flinging him back 
to the earth. I rose and set my foot upon his 


35 6 


GARCILASO 


breast and held my blade at his throat. He lay 
quite still, watching me. 

“Canst thou say one word,” I cried, “why 
this blade should not cleave thy head from thy 
body?” 

“Ay,” said he, cheerfully, “a many word!” 
His calmness made me marvel. 

“Fool!” said I, “dost not know thy time has 
come?” 

“I believe it, indeed,” said he; “but what 
then? The holy Church has promised me a soft 
place in Paradise, so thou wilt only send me to 
it a little before I was ready!” 

“Tell me, wretch,” cried I, “why thou hast 
dogged me hither across the great sea!” 

“From no hate of mine, Garcilaso,” said he, 
“save from the hate I give all heretics. But 
Torquemada bade me follow thee, and he is my 
master, so what could I but follow? Nay, I 
would follow thee to the gates of hell, for I am 
of the Inquisition, and it is my duty. I am not 
a man, I am an instrument, a vengeance of the 
Church. Look thee, Sefior. If we let so well- 
known a knight escape an auto da //, if we could 
find no trace of him, mete him out no punish- 


I TAKE LEAVE OF ANTONIO 


357 


ment, then had the Inquisition received a grievous 
blow. All over Spain heretics would begin to 
lift up their horns. Therefore I was ordered to 
trace thee, but not to take thee till thou shouldst 
lead me to the den where hid that Petonilla. 
Now, at Palos I saw thee watching the procession 
of the Jews, and I discovered the woman with 
the cloak. So I called my brethren and set them 
upon her path. But I held to thee. Doubt not, 
Seftor, by this time she has roasted over a 
goodly fire/’ 

“And what canst do to me?’’ said I. “What 
has availed thy boasted fidelity? Behold, I have 
thy life upon the point of my sword!’’ 

“It is true, Sefior, but it were better to try to 
capture thee, and fail, than to make no attempt 
to bring low so valiant a heretic.’’ 

“Antonio, I am no heretip,” I cried, chafing 
at the word. “I swear by all the saints I am a 
faithful Catholic.’’ 

“Why, if that be so,’’ said he, calmly, “how 
darest thou set thy foot upon a representative of 
the Church? An thou be a true believer, Garci- 
laso, I command thee — yea, I order thee — to set 
me at liberty. But if thou be a wily man, and 


358 


GARCILASO 


a heretic, then kill me and send thy soul to hell 
and mine to Paradise.” 

So I let him up; yes, I raised him upon his 
feet. “Look thou, Antonio,” said I, “I am 
free of the Church until I have been two months 
in Spain. Thou canst not lay hands upon me.” 

“Do I not know it? Had it not been for that 
edict, wouldst now be free? But I do keep an 
eye upon thee, not knowing what is in thy mind. 
For I would not have thee take thine own life, 
Seflor, and deprive us of that pious pleasure.” 

“Antonio, knowest it is my will to abide in 
the colony, nor return ever again to Spain?” 

“Ay,” said he, with a sigh. “Well, and I 
shall abide with thee, Seflor. We part not till 
I hand thee over to Torquemada. Such is the 
order.” 

“What!” cried I, “canst so easily relinquish 
the delights of home and native land? For 
I have no hope there; but thou must hear a 
many voice calling thee across the sea.” 

“Alas!” said he, “I do not abide without 
sorrow. But the Church before the world. Say 
no more. I cannot leave thee; indeed, I cannot. 
But oh! Seflor Garcilaso, if it were only thy 


I TAKE LEAVE OF ANTONIO 


359 


pleasure to declare who spirited away that beauti- 
ful and ensnaring female — ” 

“Never!” 

“Then, Sefior, if thou wouldst only go back 
to Spain! Why keep me here, a pining captive?” 
said he, in an earnest voice. “Nay, if it be all 
the same to thee, cavalier, go back, go back with 
Columbus, that I may spy upon thee in my 
native land !” 

His words and earnestness caused me to smile. 
And nothing so soon strikes dead the form of 
hate as the lightning-stroke of a smile. So I 
held forth my hand, and he took it, and we 
became friends. Now, who would ever have 
thought this might be? But I would not yield 
to his pleading. I held to the colony of The 
Nativity, so he sighed a patient discontent. 

But when the next morning dawned, the 
fourth of January, 1493, Garcilaso felt differently. 
And as he saw the sails filling, it came to him 
with mighty force that there are other things in 
the world than pining for a maid who will not. 
Suddenly there came the quick resolve to return, 
and the very thought made his veins tingle! 
Ay, he who had thought never to tingle again 


3 6 ° 


GARCILASO 


with sweet joy, now found himself tingling as 
well as another. He looked quickly about. For 
once Antonio had failed, for he had gone into 
the fortification to weep, that he might not see 
his countrymen depart. He leaped into the last 
boat. He gained the ship. The anchor was 
lifted. He laughed for joy as he saw the land 
fade away. He thought of poor Antonio, and 
laughed again. He was merry. But, after a 
time, he told himself this thing ought not to be; 
he reminded himself that all joy was fled, that as 
a constant knight, he could not hope to take 
pleasure in living. It was no use. Pleasure he 
did take. He had loved with all his heart, he 
had been true to his love, he had been gloomy, 
stern, and severe, and he had declared his heart 
a broken thing. No cavalier could have sorrowed 
more, while he was sorrowing. But now, to save 
his soul, he could not get back that sweet, 
melancholy feeling. For while his lips sighed, 
“Alas!” his heart would leap with “Spain! 
Spain once more!” And as he paced the deck 
he whispered, “Oh, Petonilla!” And he said, 
“I will live true to thee and go down into the 
grave with thy name upon my lips!” And a 


I TAKE LEAVE OF ANTONIO 


3 61 


voice whispered in his ears, “Life, ambition, 
glory, renown, Garcilaso, Garcilaso!” And so 
it was that the New World, where all things are 
strange and different, made Garcilaso different, 
made him a new man, so that when he tried to 
be the old despondent cavalier, he could not ; for 
his heart was like a heavy beam of wood that you 
cannot hold under the water; for when you get 
one end submerged the other end doth straight- 
way rise and leap up into the sunlight. 

Now, about the middle of February, when we 
thought soon to get a glimpse of the Old World, 
a wind arose, and becoming strong and lusty, 
beat up a heavy sea. The next morning it, in a 
great degree, subsided, but that evening, after 
sunset, over in the north-northeast were observed 
three flashes of lightning, so we made haste to 
get ready for trouble. Scarce had we taken down 
our sails and turned our bare poles to the heavens, 
when a fearful tempest fell upon our small craft. 
Through an awful night of blackness and howling 
wind we scudded before the storm, and often it 
seemed that our bark, the Santa Maria, would 
be driven straight down into the sea; and as for 
the Pinta, being greatly disabled, she fared worse. 


362 


GARCILASO 


The wind fell in the morning, but only long 
enough to give us three hours of respite. For 
we had little more than put our sails up when we 
were obliged to unreef with all haste. And away, 
away we scudded, that day and all that night, 
and now I thought that night would see the end 
of Garcilaso ! With fearful speed we were driven 
forward, and added to this flying motion was the 
frightful tossing, as billows bore us aloft and 
hurled us down into enormous valleys of water. 
The open decks ran great seas, and not a soul was 
there on board that did not say a hundred Ave 
Marias and as many Pater Nosters. And “Pray 
God,” cried we, “Pray God keep us until to- 
morrow’s sun!” And if ever St. James grew 
weary of entreaties, my patron saint grew weary 
that night ! The distress was increased by the 
signal lights that flashed from the Pinta, for they 
grew fainter, and more hopeless, so that finally 
that vessel was lost from us, lost somewhere, on 
that vast and trackless waste. On we labored 
and it seemed that the morrow would never come. 

But when the sun rose, alas! the wind grew 
more furious, and while the intensity of darkness 
did not shroud our surroundings, the frightful 


I TAKE LEAVE OF ANTONIO 


3 6 3 


appearance of the broken sea added to our alarm. 
The great waves threatened every moment to 
swamp our vessel, so Don Columbus ordered the 
sails to be spread. But this was soon found 
impossible, on account of the straining masts 
and terrible rolling. So we let her drive, and 
finding that we could do nothing, our next 
thought was to propitiate heaven. Accordingly 
our pious admiral had as many beans put in a 
cap as there were men upon the craft, and on 
one bean (no one could know on which) was cut 
the blessed sign of the cross. And we drew lots, 
to see who should make a pilgrimage to the 
shrine of Santa Maria de Guadaloupe, carrying 
with him (he going afoot) a wax taper of five 
pounds’ weight. Now, fearful was Garcilaso when 
he put his hand into that cap, fearful that he 
might draw the bean and so have to go as a pil- 
grim to that city where he had been tortured, 
but thank God ! Don Columbus drew the blessed 
cross. The storm continuing with unabated fury, 
and our vessel heaving and creaking like a moan- 
ing beast in a trap, we tried another lot, this time 
as to who should go to the chapel of Our Lady 
of Loretto. When this was decided, and seeing 


3 6 4 


GARCILASO 


that the storm had not subsided, we went through 
the like pious game of chance as to who should 
make a pilgrimage to Santa Clara de Moguer, and 
there perform a solemn mass and watch all night 
in the chapel, which lot fell upon our admiral. 

This being completed, we waited anxiously 
with our eyes upon the fearful waves that some- 
times hid us as between walls of green glass, and 
sometimes lifted us up, so that our ship appeared 
set upon the peak of a mountain, looking down 
upon a desolate world. We waited, I say, but 
no change could we discover, unless for the 
worse, if that were possible. So we all vowed a 
sacred and solemn vow, every one of us vowing 
in unison to this effect ; that wherever we might 
first land (should it be our good fortune to land 
other than at the bottom of the sea), at that 
place we would all march to a church, we being 
barefooted and in our shirts, and there and then 
and in that dress (if such may be called a dress) 
offer up thanks to our Blessed Virgin Mary, 
Mother of God. Now, as the ship could scarce 
regain its proper level after being heaved this way 
and that (for our ballast was sadly wanting, see- 
ing we had consumed so much water and pro- 


I TAKE LEAVE OF ANTONIO 


365 


vision) an order was given to fill all the casks with 
sea water, and this did us some service. Yet we 
were all gloomy and fearful, and Columbus, 
thinking the world might never hear of our suc- 
cess, in which case the colony of The Nativity 
would be left to languish and die in a foreign 
land, wrote an account of his journey, wrapped 
it in a waxed cloth, and placed it in a barrel, 
which he threw into the sea. But ah, no! pious 
and faithful to the church as was Don Christopher 
Columbus, little did he know the intent of the 
great Creator, if he imagined God would cut off 
the glory of such a man and such a discoverer, 
and such a noble and heroic soul ; for to God all 
persons are alike, and he looks upon the son of 
a wool-comber with the same eye that he casts 
upon a Garcilaso. 

Now, in the evening of this fearful day, we 
were beaten and made miserable by cold Febru- 
ary rains, which came in blinding gusts. After 
they had dashed venomously upon us, adding to 
our torments, behold ! a streak of clear blue sky 
suddenly appeared in the west, and on the seven- 
teenth, after hovering about an inhospitable 
coast, and having parted from our anchor, and 


3 66 


GARCILASO 


having been buffeted up and down till we were 
like to be dashed upon the rocks, we made port. 

It was St. Mary’s Island that we had lighted 
upon, for which we were right sorry, as it 
belonged to the Portuguese. However, we all 
had a vow to perform, so we abode, to the vast 
astonishment of the inhabitants. Then half of 
us stripped ourselves, and being barefooted and 
habilitated in our shirts, we made for land most 
speedily, being in a great degree affected by the 
chilly nature of the weather. At no great dis- 
tance was a chapel dedicated to the Virgin, and 
it was in our minds to get there as soon as we 
might, and give her a short praise and get back 
to our proper garments, in which we could praise 
her more at ease. But a certain company of 
envious and horrid Portuguese did set upon us 
and take us prisoners (we in our shirts), while the 
rabble hooted and cried out, and many fair dames 
and damsels looked on from window and door. 
We were taken to a place of confinement with 
little ceremony, attended by many jeers as to our 
bare legs, and other unpleasantries occurred that 
I would scorn to record. Now, the cause of this 
scandalous treatment arose from the jealousy of 


I TAKE LEAVE OF ANTONIO 


3^7 


the Portuguese, and of their king, and they no 
doubt thought to extort from us the secret way 
to the new lands, and they watched us and 
weighed our every word as if we had brought 
over the New World in our shirts. But after a 
few days we were released, for our admiral suc- 
ceeded in scaring them with the names of Ferdi- 
nand and Isabella, and at last we got away safe, 
and with our vow piously and quickly performed. 

I cannot hope to describe the scenes that took 
place at Palos when we were seen riding peace- 
fully at sea. It was midday and the thirteenth 
of March, just half a year and one month more, 
and half of another, since we had weighed anchor. 
Such shouts and embracings and kisses, from the 
fairest maiden you might choose; such proces- 
sions and thanksgivings and feastings, that we 
were more in danger from dinners than ever we 
had been from tempests; such tears and caprices 
and mad delights, such questionings and danc- 
ings! Well, well! in that giddy week of mad 
rapture the thoughts I gave Petonilla were few 
and dry. 

The court was being held at Barcelona and 
thither our admiral was ordered to repair, and 


3 68 


GARCILASO 


thither went he by land, attended by a great train 
of curious folk, and by divers Indians he had 
brought from the New World, and by no means 
least, Garcilaso. Now, in the midst of a tempest 
which had befallen us after leaving St. Mary’s 
Island, but which I have not so much as men- 
tioned, lest the winds blow too much in this tale, 
Garcilaso had made two vows; for he thought his 
time had surely come, therefore he vowed what 
he believed might well never be fulfilled. 

But he had escaped a watery grave, and he 
was a man of his vow. This was his first vow ; 
that he would go to his queen and seek pardon 
for escaping from the auto da ft and for helping 
to conceal a heretic. And if she forgave and 
if he were reinstated, and his excommunication 
removed forever, then (this was his second vow), 
he would search out Margaret Guzman de Medina 
Sidonia and marry her, and try to be content. 
You are now to know how he fared in the keep- 
ing of his vows. 


CHAPTER XXVII 

I APPEAL TO THE QUEEN 

As we drew near Barcelona, we found the 
roads thronged with multitudes who could not 
slake their thirsty curiosity by drinking us in with 
their eyes. We had been met by a glittering 
cavalcade of hidalgos, and these knights sur- 
rounded Columbus and made for him a body- 
guard. The admiral rode a splendid horse and 
he was dressed in finest crimson cloth. His 
white hair gave an air of authority and dignity to 
his appearance, and indeed no one, seeing him 
thus escorted, would have suspected his lowly 
origin. 

As we came to the city gate, an imposing 
procession was formed, such as never before 
honored mortal man. First came six live and 
breathing Indians, dressed in their feathers and 
paint, just as they appeared in their native land, 
with the addition of certain cloths, or habiliments, 
that are deemed necessary in an enlightened 
country; for it is true that, the more a man is 
369 


37° 


GARCILASO 


enlightened within, the more he hideth his out- 
ward portions from the light. Great was the 
astonishment of the Spaniards as they feasted 
their eyes (but could not glut them) upon men 
who were red and who had a speech of their own 
never heard by Christian ears. After the Indians 
paraded certain of the mariners who had returned 
with Columbus. They carried live parrots and 
stuffed birds now for the first time seen in Europe, 
and marvelous plants, each of which could cure 
a dozen diseases, if the proper disease were 
lighted upon; but above all, there was displayed 
all the gold Columbus had been able to scrape 
together in his voyage. And as they passed 
along the mariners told marvelous tales of the 
abundance of precious metals in the New World, 
so that those who heard were eager to go upon 
the second expedition, and could scarce wait for 
the setting forth of the next ships. Directly 
behind these sailors rode Columbus, attended by 
hidalgos in the manner already described, and 
behind these horsemen rode others (and among 
them Garcilaso), some of whom had been with the 
admiral but were of a nature too proud to carry 
parrots or weeds in the procession, and others, 


I APPEAL TO THE QUEEN 


37 1 


illustrious men of various cities, who sought to 
show Columbus honor. 

Scarce could we make our way through the 
streets, so fearful were we of riding upon the 
townsfolk, for they pressed against us on every 
side, and women held up their babes to see Don 
Columbus, and thousands looked from doors, 
windows, and balconies — nay, from the very 
housetops. Now, there was a noise in the air 
such as I have pever heard before, for every 
man that had a voice devoted it to the lustiest 
shouting whereof it was capable, and every 
woman sent forth shrill huzzas, and every child 
yelled through his wide mouth ; and the cannons 
were booming, and the arquebuses were doing 
what they could to split one’s ears. Added to 
this was the continued effort of martial music to 
lift itself up above the din and thus be heard; 
but it could no farther succeed than to manifest 
itself as a buzzing in the ears. Now, right glad 
was I that I had not remained in the New World, 
and I was especially comforted in after days, for 
never was a man of the Colony we had left ever 
seen again, only certain of their bones. 

After we had gone a short way, in a long 


37 2 


GARCILASO 


time, we were met by the Royal Guard, come to 
lead us to their gracious majesties, Ferdinand 
and Isabella. We dismounted at the entrance 
of the palace, and our company advanced to the 
vast salon where the audience was held. The 
Royal Guard spread themselves along either side 
of the magnificent apartment, where mirrors and 
hangings of precious stuffs gladdened the eye. 
Under a canopy of brocade of gold was placed 
the gorgeous throne, on which our sovereigns 
sat in wonderful dignity and grace. Beside them 
was their son, Prince Juan, and near at hand 
Cardinal Mendoza, and others who stood first in 
wisdom, valor, and piety. 

Columbus, with a modest but confident step, 
approached the throne. The king and queen 
rose^yea, they did stand upon their feet, as if 
their guest had been a king! A smile swept over 
the resolute features of Don Columbus, a smile 
of great sweetness and noble pride. He under- 
stood their hearts, but he was true to his own 
dignity; for true dignity doth not consist in 
being lifted above one’s station in life, but rather, 
by deeds and virtues, in shedding glory upon that 
station. Therefore Columbus, when he had 


I APPEAL TO THE QUEEN 


373 


reached the throne, knelt down and, taking the 
hand of the queen, made for to kiss it reverently. 
But Isabella would have drawn it away, as if she 
thought it as high a thing to discover a world as 
to be born to a kingdom. However, Columbus 
had his way, for he did kiss the hands of both 
his sovereigns. Then they raised him up. And 
they ordered him to seat himself in their pres- 
ence. 

It was, indeed, a gracious command, and we, 
who had shared the hopes and alarms of our 
admiral, were right joyful for him to be given 
this signal honor. He, as if he had shown suffi- 
ciently his own modesty and worth, did seat him- 
self — ay, did sit him down, then and there — did 
sit him down as if he were of lofty birth. It was 
a marvelous thing. So he began to relate his 
adventures, and he was right eloquent, and all 
hung upon his words. Now, while I was stand- 
ing there, I thought to myself that never since 
the world began had such a thing happened to 
the son of a wool-comber. Why, thought I, 
was the New World reserved through all these 
ages that it might be discovered b_y such a one? 
Why had it not been kept for some king, or at 


374 


GARCILASO 


least some high-born noble? Now these were my 
thoughts. 

When the audience was at an end, the day 
being far advanced, the Royal Guard was sent 
to escort us to great houses of entertainment. I 
left the salon with the sweet strains of Te Deum 
laudamus still ringing in my ears, for it had been 
chanted by a choir in the royal chapel. I made 
shift to reach the side of the captain of the guard ; 
and, “My lord,” said I, “a word as we go 
along. ’ ’ 

“How, now, fellow,” said he; “get thee 
gone !” 

“My Lord Captain,” said I, in a low voice, 
“hadst thou known my true name, and given me 
'fellow’ in my teeth, by St. James! but some of 
thy teeth would have paid toll for the word, 
hadst thou any natural ones wherewith to pay 
thy debt of insolence!” 

“By the blood of St. Januarius!” said he, 
stopping short in amazement. 

“Nay, my Lord Pulgar,” I whispered, hastily, 
“let us on, for I must not be recognized until I 
have seen the queen.” 

The old warrior stared at me in glad surprise 


I APPEAL TO THE QUEEN 


375 


and seized my hand. But he knew my danger 
and locked his lips. 

“Dear friend,” said I, “I must see the queen. 
Get me an audience with her when thou canst, 
and let it be alone.” 

“But how can this thing be?” said he, in per- 
plexity. (Now all this time we had been going 
down to our horses.) “And where hast thou 
been in hiding, Laso? And by the blood of the 
saint, this coming to court is a fearsome wild 
deed!” 

“Hearken, my Lord Captain; I have been to 
the New World — ay, to India, with Don Colum- 
bus. I have shared his toils, and he knoweth me 
by another name. Thou, who seest the queen 
every day, get her ear. Tell her a certain sailor 
who went upon the great voyage hath made a 
vow to heaven — ay, made it when shipwreck 
seemed inevitable. And the vow was that he 
would throw himself upon her mercy for his past 
sin. Now, the queen cannot refuse to see me at 
this word. And tell her not who I am.” 

“It is well thought out,” said he. “I will 
send thee a courier at the proper time. Fare- 
well. ” 


37 6 


GARCILASO 


So at the proper time the courier came. 
Then Garcilaso de la Vega put aside his poor 
attire and dressed himself in magnificent robes, 
which he had bought with gold from the new 
land, for he had obtained much riches by the 
exchange of divers glass beads. He did trim his 
beard, and perfume himself, and set his person 
in goodly condition, and did bedeck him as 
became the Lord of Bartras. But he bore a black 
patch which covered half of his face and one eye, 
and he wore his bonnet low upon his brow, and 
went as one who hath made a vow. 

Queen Isabella sat alone, save for her maids 
of honor and for old Hernando Perez del Pulgar. 
When I was seen drawing near, the maids betook 
themselves to a remote corner of the vast salon, 
but my Lord Captain remained beside his queen, 
fully armed and accoutred. I sank upon my 
knees before my lady, and waited for her to 
speak. 

Senor Cavalier,” said she, ‘‘how can I aid thy 
vow? Speak; 'permission is given thee.” 

“My vow is this, O Lady Queen, that I will 
throw myself upon thy mercy for my past sin.” 

“Thy Lady Queen,” said she, “can forgive 


I APPEAL TO THE QUEEN 


377 


a sin against herself, but no sin against another. 
Nay, Sir Knight, seek a priest and confess thy 
wrong. ” 

“Dear my lady, and shall not I keep the vow 
vowed upon the rolling sea, when death seemed 
nigh? May it not well be that my vow kept the 
whole ship’s crew from going to the bottom of 
the sea? I pray thee remember that I am one 
who went with the admiral when death seemed 
almost sure, and failure more certain; and how I 
shared his sufferings, and in a certain degree his 
glory.” 

The eyes of my sovereign flashed and she said : 
“Sir, in what have I been remiss, that thou 
shouldst remind me of my duty? Where have I 
forgotten, that a stranger knight must plead with 
me to show gratitude?’’ 

Now it seemed that my voice failed me. 

“Thou deservest honor,’’ said she, “and do 
I not honor thee by this audience? But do not, 
I pray thee, tell me what I must remember and 
what I must forget. If thy sin is against me, it 
is forgiven already. If against the holy Church, 
thy vow is all in vain.” 

“It is against the queen’s grace,” said I. 


37 s 


GARCILASO 


“In that case,” said she, in a kind voice, “I 
forgive thee freely. Rise, Sir Knight, and here 
is my hand. ” 

But I did not rise. “See first whom thou 
hast forgiven,’’ said I, and I removed the black 
patch from my face, and I added, “I am Garci- 
laso.” 

Then the queen gave a startled cry of “Gar- 
cilaso! Garcilaso, the heretic!’’ And her face 
was crossed by a look of horror. 

“Not Garcilaso the heretic,’’ I cried, rising 
from my knees and standing upright, “but Gar- 
cilaso who saved the king’s life!’’ 

“I can do nothing for thee,’’ cried my lady. 

“Not a heretic,’’ cried I, “but the knight who 
met Yarfe the Moor, for the honor of our queen 
and Blessed Virgin. The queen’s grace can do 
nothing for him who saved the life of Ferdinand 
the Catholic? The queen’s grace can do noth- 
ing for him who overthrew the insolent Moor and 
tore Ave Maria from his capture, and bare it back 
to her army upon his lance! The queen’s grace 
can do nothing for him who helped to win for her 
vast domains and unparalleled riches? Indeed, 
the queen’s grace must forgive me if I bring to 


I APPEAL TO THE QUEEN 


379 


her remembrance my former deeds and seek to 
teach her gratitude. For I am a desperate man 
and fight for my life and honor. The queen’s 
grace has a many brave cavalier to do her bid- 
ding, and it is natural for her to confuse them in 
her mind and forget them, even if some should 
die for her. But I have only one queen, and to 
her I come!” 

Queen Isabella’s face was white, not from 
anger, but from fear. She turned to my Lord 
Captain, and she cried, “Arrest him, Seftor Cap- 
tain, in God’s name!’’ 

“Ay,” cried Garcilaso, who was quite beside 
himself, “arrest me, Don Hernando, in God’s 
name. It is for my queen’s grace to kiss me 
one day upon the brow, and upon another day 
to take my life.” 

Old Pulgar looked at me, gloomily, but he 
made not a step. And he said, “Dear my lady, 
what hath the youth done? Besides, his two 
months’ respite is not sped.” 

“What hath he done?” cried the queen, as if 
she sought to be angry, but could not. “Did 
he not slay Father Pedro?” 

“Not so,” cried Garcilaso,” not so, by St. 


38° 


GARCILASO 


James! Let not my queen say it, for never yet 
hath aught but the sweetest and purest truth 
passed her lips!” 

“I swear he did not kill the holy man,” said 
Pulgar, stoutly, “for although some say other- 
wise, I know well enough how Father Pedro was 
found with his own dagger in his heart. For 
with his own holy hand he took his life, though 
not purposely. For he stumbled and fell, and 
the fall drove the blade into his vitals. Yea,” 
cried the old man, warming to his tale, “I was a 
witness of the whole affair. I saw the thing 
done ! Garcilaso was not within a hundred miles ! ’ ’ 

“Is this indeed true?” .said the queen, her 
face still agitated by a troubled doubt. 

“I swear by the soul of my mother,” cried I, 
“that I did not slay Father Pedro!” As to Pul- 
gar’s tale, I had naught to say, whether it was true 
or false. But my heart warmed to the old man. 

“Garcilaso,” said the august lady, in a softer 
tone, but yet with infinite sadness, “I believe 
thee. But there is another matter I cannot for- 
get. For I do not forget as thou seemest to 
think! Didst thou not hide a heretic?” 

“Never.” 


I APPEAL TO THE QUEEN 


33 


‘‘Didst not connive at the escape of one, 
Petonilla?” 

“I know the one who got her away,” said I; 
“I did help in the’rescue. ” 

“And since then,” said she, “didst thou not 
wed with the heretical maiden?” 

“Alas! no, never,” said I. 

“Then declare unto me the name of the one 
who hid her away,” said she, brightening more 
and more. 

I was very sad at that command, for I could 
not obey, so I dropped my head. Her eyes grew 
stern once more. “Garcilaso, said she, “thy 
queen speaks to thee.” 

“Ay,” said Garcilaso, in a broken voice, “but 
my heart tells me not to answer!” 

Isabella’s face flamed. “Is thy heart a traitor 
to thy queen?” she cried. “Enough! Let the 
audience end!” 

“May I speak?” said old Pulgar. “Indeed, 
my Lady Queen, I can tell thee what Garcilaso 
cannot, for Petonilla is nothing to me, and she 
is Garcilaso’s dream. It was Herbert Klein who 
carried her away. And to Germany went they, 
yea, and married.” 


3 82 


GARCILASO 


il What \ ” cried Garcilaso. 

“Ay, married,” cried my Lord Captain, 
“married as snugly as ever man and woman did 
marry. For they have become man and wife. 
Yea, they be married, thank God! But being in 
Germany they are safe from our holy Inquisition, 
and may live such heretical lives as please them.” 

“My mind is greatly eased,” said Isabella, 
with a gracious smile. “And I think the more 
of thee, Garcilaso, that thou didst not declare 
the name of Herbert Klein, for I remember he 
was thy friend, though now thou must hate him, 
seeing what state he hath fallen to. But there 
is one thing more. How didst thou escape from 
the Inquisition? Declare the men who rescued 
thee.” 

I looked at old Pulgar and he looked at the 
ceiling. There was a dreary pause. 

“Garcilaso!” said the queen, sharply, for 
though she had the sweetest disposition in the 
world, for a queen, she was like other women 
when crossed. 

“My Lady Queen,” said Pulgar, “thou know- 
est (and far be it from me to remind thee of what 
is so clear to thee), the holy Inquisition is a state 


I APPEAL TO THE QUEEN 


383 


institution, not a church institution; the sover- 
eigns appoint all officers, and to the sovereigns 
alone are they accountable. The blessed Pope, 
indeed, smileth upon the holy office, but it is 
none of his creating. Therefore he who offendeth 
against the Inquisition sinneth against thee. 
Now, thou hast forgiven Garcilaso all sins against 
thee. If the petition of a faithful old soldier may 
avail, I pray thee ask no more.” 

Now the queen gave him a long, steady look, 
and Hernando Pulgar met her eye, and suffered 
a certain ray of light to dance in his orbs, as if it 
were shot out of a merry recollection. And she 
looked, and she saw, and in a measure she under- 
stood. Then a smile played of a sudden about 
her mouth, and she turned to me and held forth 
her hand, and I did kiss it. 

“Thou art forgiven,” said she; “I will pub- 
lish the news abroad. ’ ’ 

“Ah, my dear queen,” said Garcilaso, as sud- 
denly his eyes were dimmed, “I have suffered 
long and bitterly. ” 

“I will remember it,” said the lady. So my 
first vow was fulfilled. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


I FIND MY NORTH 

Not many days after my interview with the 
good queen’s grace, my dear sovereign Isabella, 
I set forth alone to visit Santa Fe. I had been 
reinstated in church and state, so I cared not how 
soon the two months were at an end, for my per- 
secution was over. However, that was a right- 
eous persecution, and I had deserved ill in aiding 
Petonilla. But all had turned out to my com- 
fort, except her marriage with Herbert. It is a 
strange thing, when now I reflect upon it, that 
though I no longer loved her, I wished no other 
man to have her. But they were gone, gone to 
that land of free thought and wicked liberty, 
that land of Germany, in whose hotbeds of sacri- 
lege and infidelity were nurtured a many poison- 
ous weed, of whom none more poisonous, none 
more weed, than Martin Luther. Ay, even while 
Columbus was snatching from obscurity new 
worlds to lay at the feet of his sovereigns, Luther, 
that son of Belial, was waxing strong to bring 
384 


I FIND MY NORTH 


3S5 


discomfiture and shame upon the holy Church of 
Rome. 

But enough of that. It was now my purpose 
to seek out Margaret Guzman and marry her (for 
this was my second vow) and settle down and try 
to be happy. I was no longer what you may 
call, without courtesy, a young man, so I thought 
it well to become married. I supposed Margaret 
in Seville, and therein I was right. Then why 
sally forth to Santa Fe? Ah, it was to think for 
the last time, the last sweet time, upon Petonilla. 
Yea, for the last time to give her my sweet, sad 
thoughts, since, after seeing Margaret, such joy 
would ill become me. Well, when I came to the 
oblong city of stone, I tried to picture the city 
of silk that had once stood here. I knew where 
certain pavilions had been pitched ; that of Cadiz 
and Ponce and Celi and Pulgar; here the tent 
where Herbert Klein and I had been happy 
together, and there the tents of the king. Now 
I could not get back those days, for upon the 
spot where Herbert and I had lived in friendship, 
where I had told him of my love, and where he 
had lived in his books, behold ! a mean butcher 
shop stood, full of meats. So I went to where 


3 86 


GARCILASO 


Margaret’s tent had perched, and here was an 
inn. I had saved Petonilla’s staying-place for 
the last. Now I went thither, thinking to have 
deep feelings. It was a bare lot I came upon, a 
vacant lot between two houses. From the houses 
came happy laughter, the sound of children at 
play. The laughter made havoc with my dreams. 
I stood upon the ground where we had parted, 
where I had seen her as she dashed away upon 
Herbert’s horse, but the face of Father Pedro 
rose before me, and the laughter of the children 
seemed to mock my memory. 

Well, there was one spot where she and I had 
been alone together, and I left Santa F6 and 
walked to the hamlet of Zubia. And having 
sought out the ruins of the Moorish tower, I 
climbed to where we two had rested, one warm, 
bright evening and I looked over into Granada as 
on that day we looked. I remembered some of 
her words, how she wondered if she could trust 
me with her secret, and how she defended the 
Vaudois. I remembered how near my hand her 
little hand lay upon the crumbled stone, and how 
her dress brushed my knee, and how her fair, 
pale face looked whiter and sweeter in the gather- 


I FIND MY NORTH 


3*7 


ing twilight. Yes, I remembered all this and 
more, till it seemed that I could, by the excel- 
lency of my memory, reproduce her beside me 
just as she was a year ago, from head to foot. 
And yet, though all the thoughts of that day vis- 
ited me anew, not one emotion of that day was 
now my guest. For I was changed ; for I no longer 
loved Petonilla; for troubled days and distant 
lands and hopeless longings had swept her from 
my soul. Then it seemed a sad thing that the 
love which had been so sweet and precious to me 
was gone, ay, gone forever. And I would have 
given much to have that love and that day back 
again, though with it all its pain. But the day 
was gone, and with it its hopes, its longings. 

I heard a footstep, and I started up and cried 
“ Petonilla !” 

For it would not have been too strange a 
thing for belief if she and Herbert had appeared 
there together. I have known a stranger thing, 
which I will tell you. When the tempest drove 
the Pinta out of the knowledge of her consorts, 
as I have related, and when her signal lights were 
no longer to be seen, we gave her up for lost. 
Having weathered the storm, we put in at St. 


3 88 


GARCILASO 


Mary’s and there we performed our vow of the 
shirts and bare feet, as set forth. Leaving that 
island, other storms smote us, so that it seemed 
we should never get back to the Old World to 
tell them of the New. But when we at last, 
after so many perils, reached Palos, behold ! the 
Pinta, upon that very selfsame day, rode into the 
same port. And if history did not record the 
fact in cold and passionless Spanish, I would not 
venture to tell it, for who would believe such a 
coincidence? Therefore, I thought it nothing too 
wonderful that Petonilla and Herbert should 
suddenly appear before me. However, no such 
thing happened. For the one who had disturbed 
me was old Pulgar, and none other. 

“How now, Laso,” said he, “dreamest?” 

“Good Pulgar, forbear,’’ said I, peevishly. 
“I have come here for the last time to muse 
upon Petonilla.’’ 

“Then it were well for me to be here,’’ said 
he, gruffly. “I kept ye twain apart last year, 
now I shall keep her thought from thee. News, 
Garcilaso ; news, my dear Laso, my young 
friend!’’ (For he would never give over calling 
me young.) “The queen, the gracious queen,’’ 


I FIND MY NORTH 


389 


said he, “hath kept her promise to remember 
thee. Behold, I bring thee a commission for to 
make thee her ambassador to the Papal See at 
Rome. Ay, Garcilaso, thou art the Spanish 
legate to the Blessed Court!” It was thus that 
Isabella proved her confidence in me; it was thus 
she showed to the world that she held me a true 
Catholic. She knew, gracious lady, that Spain 
would not be a pleasant abiding place for me till 
the holy men of the Inquisition got over my 
escape. For they even yet looked upon me with 
watering mouths, for their zeal and piety were 
beyond belief.* 

In joy I cried out, in joy I embraced my Lord 
Captain, crying him the best friend that ever 
cavalier had known. When my transports were 
over, he drew away from me and spoke again, 
and this time his voice was hard and cold : 

*As I am to say no more of this royal commission (since my life at 
Rome is minutely depicted in my autobiography), it may not be amiss to 
insert here a little incident, to give you a taste of my adroit and bold 
behavior. Now one day I went unto the Pope (His Holiness Alexander) 
and I read unto him a lecture in regard to the scandalous behavior of 
his son Caesar Borgia. (This, you will take notice, was when I had gone 
up to Rome.) His Holiness heard me with an unsteady countenance. 
At last he made to tear my paper to fragments, at the same time cursing 
me roundly. Whereupon I drew myself to my full height, and I said to 
him, "I have uttered no more than becomes a loyal subject of Castile, 
and I shall never shrink from declaring what I believe to be for the best 
of Christendom. If your Holiness (said I) like not my words, send me 
from court, an thou wilt. But while here, my mind shall find my tongue 
its fearless advocate.” Now those are my words. You will find them in 
history. That is the way I talked to His Holiness. Wherever I have 
been, before Petonilla, Torquemada, Queen or Pope, I have ever been 
Garcilaso. 


39° 


GARCILASO 


“Further news, young man. Hast heard of 
Margaret’s marriage” 

My breath failed, I surely grew white, I 
stared at him with fearful gaze. 

“Ay,” said Pulgar, “this three months gone 
she hath been the wife of thine old enemy, young 
Ponce de Leon.” 

I sank heavily upon the ruined wall and 
grasped its coping with a hand that felt not the 
cutting of the stone. “It is false!” I murmured. 

“It is true as steel,” cried he. “Why, what 
aileth thee, Laso? What carest thou? Where 
be those pensive thoughts of Petonilla, wherein 
thou didst dress thy brain but a moment since?” 

“Pulgar, thou sayest she is married? Mar- 
garet is married ?" 

“Why, ay, indeed, my lad. What then, what 
then, Garcias? Why art thou not merry? Think 
on thy Petonilla.” 

“By heaven,” cried I, “an thou cast that 
name into my teeth again ! — But Pulgar, I cannot 
comprehend this news. Married, and for three 
months! For three months the wife of another 
man! As God lives, I never supposed that Mar- 
garet would marry. Pulgar, dear Pulgar, gallant 


I FIND MY NORTH 


39 1 

old man, tell me these be jesting words. Tell 
me, ay, tell me Margaret is the sweet, simple 
maiden I left a year ago. Tell me she is the 
same Margaret!” 

“By my troth, she is as sweet and simple, and 
the same Margaret,” said he, “for there is none 
like her, not one, and her husband thinks as thou. 
And being so sweet and simple, why should she die 
a single lady? Is it not to her to marry? And 
who is above young Ponce in graces and valor?” 

“Say not so; I hate him!” cried I, springing 
up. “He is not above me in aught!” 

“Indeed he is above thee in fortune!” cried 
Pulgar, “seeing that he hath won the daintiest 
bride in Spain, and seeing that for three months 
he hath been the happiest man alive in her love !” 

“By St. James!” cried I, grasping his arm, 
for I knew not what I did, “take back those 
words, take back those words as touching his 
valor, or I shall fight with thee!” 

“Come, then, let us fight; I fear thee not,” 
cried he, and we strove with each other to see 
who should be thrown down. “Fight for thy- 
self,” cried he, “and I will fight for Ponce!” 
And we battled furiously. I have no heart to 


39 3 


GARCILASO 


describe what followed. Never before had I been 
overcome. It must have been that my voyaging 
had weakened my strength. I think, moreover, 
that he stood upon higher ground. 

Now, when old Pulgar had left the place, I 
rose up and did seat myself upon the ruins. I 
was somewhat bruised, but not much the worse 
for the match, save that my spirit was in a boiling 
condition. Seeing that to sit there and meditate 
upon Petonilla was as far from my desire as ice from 
the tropics, I rose up and fared to Santa F£, and 
got my horse and set out furious and disconsolate. 

Now, on the next day I had but one thought, 
which was to go to Margaret Ponce and see her, 
though the wife of another. And, by my soul! 
never had I thought to burn with such a flame 
for Margaret, whom I had known all my life! 
For I might have seen her a thousand times when 
I would not! 

So I came to the duke’s castle, and inquired 
for her, and was told that she still abode there. 
So I was shown to her and she saw me entering. 
I had not sent her my name. But she knew me 
at once. And she looked me straight in the eyes, 
and she said, “Thou hast come at last, Garcias.” 


I FIND MY NORTH 


393 


Her voice was gentle, and I was reminded of 
what I had lost. “My lady,” said I, “thou hast 
much to forgive me.” 

“Nay, Garcias,” said she, “dost not remem- 
ber what I said to thee at the very last ?’ * 

“I remember well, my lady. For it was this; 
that whenever I should be ready to take up our 
former friendship, thou wouldst be ready.” 

“Well,” said she, “and I am ready.” 

“So thou forgivest me, my lady?” 

“There is no such thing, Garcias, for the 
wound thou gavest has been healed by memories 
of thee.” 

“But, alas!” cried I, “I cannot forgive my- 
self. For I have lost the chance of love.” 

“Say not so, Garcias.” 

“I know,” said I, bitterly, “that such things 
should not be spoken now ; and so, my lady, I 
go to Rome, where thou canst not forbid my 
thinking of thee; for thoughts are free,” said I, 
“thoughts are free when they travel far.” 

“Nay,” said she, “but I would rather thy 
thoughts cost something, and that they were 
nearer home.” 

“My lady!” said I, not knowing what to think. 


394 


GARCILASO 


“And why dost thou not call me Margaret, 
Garcias. Must I call thee 1 my lordf 

“I tell thee nay,” said I, “but I think thy 
husband would tell thee different.” 

“Until I get a husband,” said she, “I will 
seek to please thee, Garcias.” 

Now, that instant (for it taketh Garcias Laso 
no longer than that to see into a truth) I dis- 
covered that old Pulgar had told me a false thing, 
and that the tale about Ponce de Leon was 
invented. I knew all this, though there were 
none to tell me ; I divined it, as in a subtle man- 
ner, I cannot tell you how. It came quick as the 
stroke of a Christian. But, as it were to gain 
time, I said, slowly, “And so thou wilt seek to 
please me, darling Margaret, until thou hast got 
a husband ?’ ’ 

“Ay, by Our Lady,” said she, with a rosy 
light upon her face. 

“And if thou wilt take me for thy husband,” 
said I, softly, “what then, sweetheart?” 

“Then I will please myself,” she said. 


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